


Octavia

by neatomosquito



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, F/M, Gen, M/M, dæmon AU, yay!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neatomosquito/pseuds/neatomosquito
Summary: Sammy Stevens and his dæmon wash up in King Falls and get a job at the local AM radio station.Collection of one-shots.
Relationships: Ben Arnold & Sammy Stevens, Ben Arnold/Emily Potter, Sammy Stevens/Jack Wright
Comments: 22
Kudos: 60





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> His Dark Materials AU!! Ever since i decided to bainstorm what I though the main cast's dæmon's would be, I've been itching to write this.
> 
> also cw for some slightly homophobic language (canon typical).

“Ben,” the boy stuck his hand out. He seemed nervous, eyes skittering about. By his feet, a beagle dæmon looked up at Sammy with a shining, staring gaze. 

“Sammy,” he offered, shaking Ben’s hand. Beside him, Octavia blinked, doing her best approximation at a smile.

“We should be good to go in a couple of minutes,” Ben said, he seemed to ease slightly when he looked at Octavia – she tended to have that effect on people. His dæmon sniffed at Octavia’s front leg, and she lowered her head to greet it. “So just…you know, be comfortable. Stay classy. All that…all that jazz and stuff.”

“Jazz and stuff?” Sammy grinned.

Ben looked slightly rueful, face reddening. He looked anxious again, and his dæmon pulled back to stick her head between his ankles. “Right. Uh, sorry. I’m just nervous. We don’t normally get, you know, _big deals_ coming to King Falls AM. We don’t even really get the Mayor.”

“Well,” Sammy said. Octavia looked up at him. “I’m not really a big deal.”

“What?” Ben seemed to forget some of his nervousness. “Are you…you’re _Sammy Stevens_! _The_ Sammy Stevens.”

“I won’t lie, that _is_ my name—”

“How did you end _up_ here anyway, man?” Ben asked, eyes wide. His beagle poked through his ankles, panting up at him, tilting her head. “I mean—”

A girl, bored, chewing gum, with a hamster dæmon perched on her shoulder, poked her head out of the door. “Ben, Chet needs you.”

“Right,” Ben said quickly. He looked at Sammy apologetically before rushing into the recording studio, his dæmon galloping along at his heels.

“A dog dæmon,” Octavia said thoughtfully. He sighed and turned to her, running a hand over her ears.

“I know.”

Octavia said nothing for a moment. Then; “He seemed nice.”

“He did,” Sammy looked up. He moved slowly to the recording studio and peered in through the glass – the girl was standing on the side on her phone. Ben was helping Chet with the phone lines, pressing a button for him. Sammy couldn’t see his face, but by the set of his shoulders, he seemed slightly exasperated. Chet’s dæmon, a fully black cat, was switching her tail over Ben’s dæmon’s nose. The beagle dæmon seemed irritated - her typically wagging tail twitching with agitation.

Sammy pulled back as Chet began to remove his headphones and the ON AIR sign switched off. When the door opened again, Chet and his cat dæmon farewelled them and wished them luck with a quick wink.

“You ready?” Ben asked, glancing at Octavia again.

“Of course,” Sammy settled the familiar grin across his mouth. He’d pretended to be a douche bag for a very long time. He could pretend to be in a good mood for a couple of hours.

“Let me know if you want me to chew through a wire or something,” Octavia told him sweetly as they walked into the studio.

Sammy looked down at her wryly. “I’ll do that.”

Sammy settled into the chair Chet had just vacated. Before he could reach for the headphones, Ben bounded forward. His dæmon yipped in warning, and Sammy froze.

“Uh, sorry, Sammy, just let me—” Ben grabbed the headphones by the ends of his fingers and threw them on the couch. He hastily wiped the bench in front of him, all the buttons and the microphone. Then he offered a bemused Sammy an untouched pair of headphones.

“Sorry,” Ben said looking slightly queasy. “Chet is kind of…gross.”

“Gross?” Sammy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Dude, if only you knew,” Ben shook his head. “You’ll thank me one day.” He looked to his watch. His eyes widened. “Shit. Ok. We’re on air in like, two seconds. You ready to go?”

Octavia came, without being called, pressing her head against his leg. Her familiar weight, warmth, spurred Sammy forward.

He smiled easily and settled the headphones over his ears. His voice sounded full of charm when he said: “Let’s do this.” He turned into the microphone. “Good Evening, I’m Sammy Stevens, and you’re listening to King Falls AM.”

#

Ben had a lot of theories when it came to dæmons. Like yeah, _obviously_ they were supposed to represent your _soul_ and stuff, but he had…well, he thought that there were some deeper truths to be gleaned. Like, ok, so aggressive people normally got predator dæmons, idiots got stupid looking animals, and normal guys like him usually ended up with some form of a domesticated animal. Mary Jensen had a sparrow that chirped in her ear because Mary Jensen was a nice person. Dirk Roberts, who used to tell Ben that he was ‘one gay day away from earning a knuckle sandwich right in the chomper’, had a blue footed booby, because he was immature and an idiot.

So when Sammy Stevens, big-city radio presenter, walked into the King Falls AM studio with a beautiful, delicate doe, Ben’s mind began to whir.

He knew it could come off as rude, staring at someone else’s dæmon. He didn’t like it when people looked too long at Dido. It made him feel raw, seen in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“Sammy,” the radio host had offered, taking Ben’s offered hand in a firm handshake with a warm smile.

The start of the show went…fine. Sammy seemed determined to disbelieve everything that made King Falls cool and interesting, but Ben, well…couldn’t _forgive_ him, really, but did decide to make it a pet project to convince Sammy otherwise.

“What’s her name?” Sammy asked, during break, as the two of them mixed terrible instant coffee into boiled water.

“Who?” Ben asked, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes.

“Your dæmon,” Sammy nodded to Ben’s Dido, who was curled at Ben’s feet, dozing. He gestured to the quiet deer standing patiently at his side. “This is Octavia.”

“Oh, uh, her name's Dido,” Ben said, nudging the beagle's belly with his foot. Dido did not get the message to look up and be polite. She just turned so that her belly was poking up, ready for him to scratch it for her. “Jesus H Christ. Say _hello_ you lazy thing.”

Dido blearily opened her eyes. She looked at Ben. “Why?”

Ben’s ears burned. “Because…because we’re being _polite_!”

She looked up at Sammy, then back at Ben. With a sour look, she piled back into a ball, closing her eyes.

Sammy laughed. “She’s beautiful.”

There it was – the strange raw feeling. Ben’s ears burnt. “Oh, uh, thank you. So is…so is Octavia.”

“Don’t let her hear that,” Sammy advised, grinning. He ran his non-coffee hand over the top of the doe’s head. She looked up at Ben with her wide, measured gaze. “She’s vain enough as it is.”

“Oh, ah,” Ben laughed. “I didn’t know dæmon’s could _be_ vain.”

“If only,” Sammy sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanations re dæmons:
> 
> Doe for Sammy because I really vibed it like I cannot explain beyond that.......I think it's because I picture him as being sort of tall and when I was in Japan the deers were really beautiful but they also kept head butting me. // Octavia named for the sister of Octavius, the first Emperor of Rome. She was very loyal to her brother. (I've seen Rome HBO so......you COULD say i have the equivalent of a classics degree.)
> 
> Beagle for Ben because he has a big, loyal, intelligent heart and I love him. //Dido after the doomed Queen of Carthage in the Aeneid. This one was more ironic. Dido curses Aeneas - her final act is revenge. Ben's arc, in my mind, was about learning the uselessness of revenge and anger. Sort of a catharsis for myself as well because I still think Dido deserved better. 
> 
> Black cat for Chet because he calls people cool cats.........a lot of very deep thought went into this I promise. Also because black cats are pretty sexy. Lol.


	2. The Lovely Miss Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy and Ben meet Emily Potter.

“Come _on_ ,” Sammy said, and then, plaintively: “ _Please_?”

“Fine,” Ben said roughly. “But only for the start.” A pause. “Only for the start, right?”

Sammy looked at Ben thoughtfully. “Uh—"

Ben swore. “Sammy!”

“You’re _so good_ , Ben,” Sammy said, assured him. “The people love you!”

“The _people_ , if you mean our 13 listeners,” Ben started.

“Hey, that’s _13_ more than you had—”

“ _So_ not the point, Sammy,” Ben snapped. At his heel, Dido barked.

“Please?” Sammy asked, voice softer. Next to him, Octavia levelled her eyes. She was so…ethereal. So _calming_. It was so easy to trust her. “I _promise_ I won’t like, hang you out to dry.”

Dido began to whine her displeasure. “Ben,” she said. “Your voice sounds _terrible_ recorded. Imagine how many people—”

“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” Ben muttered, pulling a pair of headphones on and setting up his microphone.

The start of the show went…fine. Dido was in a solemn mood the entire time. Octavia, it seemed, was doing her best to cheer the sour faced beagle up. Dido, however, was determined. Octavia's best efforts were unsuccessful.

It came to the point where Dido was making noises in the background. She _claimed_ she wasn’t doing it on purpose, but Ben had to tell her to stop whining _three times_ so that they could come back on air after an ad break.

Sammy began to introduce the new librarian – “The _lovely_ Emily Potter.”

Lovely and library were not two words that had ever held any sort of synonymous relationship in Ben’s mind. Sammy seemed put off by Ben’s scoffing antics, but Ben didn’t care. What did Sammy know?

All Ben could think of was of the old librarian, who had told him _dogs weren’t allowed in the library_ and that there were “special arrangements” that could be made for the “likes of that mutt”.

“I saw that old _whisper Nazi_ put Mein Kampf in the children’s section,” Ben told Sammy severely. Dido nodded at his ankle. He gestured to his emphatic dæmon. “Dido saw it too!”

Sammy drawled into the microphone, “Folks, I _can_ confirm that my co-hosts adorable little dæmon _is_ nodding her adorable little head.”

Octavia looked about as close as a Doe could get to laughing. Ben felt his neck growing warmer.

The show went into an ad break, and Sammy pulled his headphones around his neck. Ben followed suit, fluffing his hair out with his fingers.

“Was your old librarian _really_ a nazi, or are you being facetious?”

“Hey—” Ben started. “Ok, first of all, no $10 words before…” he checked his watch. “3am. _Second_ —” Dido yapped emphatically. “I would not lie about something like that. People shouldn’t get away with being Nazis.”

Sammy had a strange look on his face, something between interest and pride. “I couldn’t agree more.”

There was a knock at the door, and both turned toward it.

“This must be the _lovely_ ,” he stressed the word and smiled self-indulgently. Ben rolled his eyes. “Emily Potter,” Sammy said. “Come in!”

“Lovely,” Ben half scoffed as the door open. Emily Potter stepped through, shrouded in light. He swallowed; his eyes widened. For a moment, all he could hear was his heartbeat. Thudding faster and faster. At his feet, Dido let out a low whine. “ _Lovely_.”

But _lovely_ was a poor man’s approximation for Emily Potter. _Lovely_ didn’t account for her soft smile, her glinting eyes. Didn’t account for her soft cheeks, her curling, glossy hair.

“Hi guys,” Emily said smiling shyly. A hummingbird dæmon fluttered around her ears, before settling on her shoulder. “You must be—”

Ben leapt to his feet. “I’m Ben.”

“Oh,” Emily blinked her surprise, and then came forward, offering a hand. “The producer! Ben…Arnold?”

“Exactly,” Ben said, feeling a strong pain in his chest. Somewhere, in the aether of his mind, he wondered whether he was having a heart attack. He must have grabbed Emily’s hand, because he was shaking it enthusiastically for about two seconds longer than he should have.

Or maybe he was having a stoke.

“I’m Sammy,” a very welcome distraction came, amused, from behind him. His concentration relapsed, for a moment, he let go of Emily’s hand. “Sorry about my Producer – he gets weird without his coffee.”

Ben felt his breath catching and falling in his throat. A panic attack?

“Oh!” Emily laughed. “Hello, Sammy. Welcome to King Falls!”

“Thanks,” Sammy said. There was a pause. “Ben, do you want to help her get set up?”

Ben hurried out from behind his chair. He nearly tripped as he did. Dido snapped up at him.

“Can’t you just be cool?” she barked.

“I’m doing my best,” he snarked back.

As Ben helped Emily with her headphones, and started testing her levels, she and Sammy spoke in low pleasantries. Being so close to her, though, made Ben feel slightly nauseous with nerves. He dropped the chord to connect the microphone three times before it finally clicked in.

“Are you alright, Ben?” Sammy asked, sounding more and more deeply amused with every second.

“Fine,” Ben said, trying for an easy laugh, but instead sounding like he was wheezing. “These things can be real…ah, you know, what’s the word?”

A pause, and then Emily: “Difficult?”

“Yep,” Ben nodded emphatically. “Exactly. Difficult.”

“Right, well, we should be back on air at any moment,” Sammy reminded him, glancing at the clock next to the ON AIR sign.

“Yes, I _know_ ,” Ben said, wondering whether he’d be cool or normal about anything at all in his life. He hurried around the table (and managed to avoid tripping over the edge of his seat again, which he counted as a win) and settled into his chair. It was only when he had, did he realise that he’d connected Emily into the microphone directly across from him.

There was no way for him to not look at her without seeming rude, and there was _no way_ for him to look at her without staring.

She smiled at him pleasantly. Her hummingbird dæmon fluttered its wings and landed on the table. He was as beautiful as she was – green and gold and red. He seemed to shimmer under the light.

“Alright, ready,” Sammy said for him, and _damn_ that guy, because he sounded about three seconds away from laughing. Octavia stepped gracefully around Sammy’s chair, her hooves barely sounding on the carpet. She settled onto the ground next to Dido and nudged the beagle with her nose. Something like solidarity, and something like teasing. “In three, two—

“Folks, welcome back to King Falls AM.”

#

Emily’s dæmon’s name was Cicero, which he found out as he oh-so-casually deposited a heap of his mother’s romance books at the library.

His mother wouldn’t mind. Maybe. Well. He hadn’t asked her. And one of them…ok, he would keep the one that had a bookmark stuck halfway through and take it back to his mother’s after this. He wouldn’t make her check out her own copy of _Springtime in Sicily: An Italian Stallion_ just to see how it finished.

Ben waited out the front with Dido, holding the books. The dog was sat, legs splayed. She yawned widely.

“Close your mouth,” Ben told her. “You’ll…catch a fly or something.”

Dido snapped it closed and looked up at him. “You’re real mean when you’re nervous.”

From within the library, Ben heard footsteps. He straightened, instantly nervous. He recognised Emily’s silhouette a moment before she saw him.

Emily brightened when she saw him, her face splitting into a smile. “Ben!”

“Hi, Emily,” Ben said, clearing his throat. “I, uh, brought some books—”

“Oh, amazing!” Emily said. “Come on through—”

“Oh, uh, it’s alright we can wait outside—” Ben looked at Dido. He looked back up at Emily, sheepish. “Have you met Dido?” Emily’s confusion deepened. “Uh, if you remember, she is a _dog_ —"

“Of course I remember her,” Emily said, still smiling, though looking increasingly confused. She took the wrong indicia first, gesturing to her bird. “Do you remember Cicero?”

“Uh,” Ben blinked. “Hello?”

Emily looked first at Ben, and then at Dido. Realisation hit, because, for a moment, she looked slightly angry. She muttered, “That old—” She smoothed over her features with a sigh and a new, polite smile. “Come on in, Ben. I’ll show you where you can leave those.”

Dido barked with excitement, jumping through the doorway and into the library. She turned back waiting for Ben, tail wagging so fast Ben couldn’t see it.

“I _like_ this one,” she barked, jumping up and down on the spot, her enthusiasm releasing in puffs of energy.

“Me too,” Ben told her, smiling after Emily fondly, her hummingbird Dæmon looking back at them, perched on the top of her head.

Dido span in a quick circle, her paws pushing into the library carpet. “I’ve never been inside a library before!”

“Yes you have,” Ben rolled his eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic.”

“Fine,” Dido flopped onto the floor, ears dangling. “But I haven’t been inside one since I settled.”

“Well, neither have I,” Ben reminded her.

The two hurried to catch up to Emily.

Ben set the books down where Emily advised. She looked over them, a slow smile creeping across her lips.

“You’re a big fan of…” she pulled one forward from the top of the pile, holding it up with waggling eyebrows. “ _In Another’s Arms: A Cowboy Romance?_ ”

Ben went to defend himself, tell her that they were his mother’s – his _masculinity_ was on the line after all – but she was joking. And she was laughing.

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” Ben agreed. “Whose fantasy _isn’t_ —” He took the book from her and scanned the front cover. “Uh, being romanced by Clint Eastwood during the Western Expansion?”

“I’ll have to read it,” Emily laughed, Cicero sang. She pulled through more of these. “Then we can dissect all the themes and motifs that…” she looked down. “Uh, R. T. Lovelace used throughout her magnum opus.”

“Oh, please do,” Ben placed the book back at the top of the pile. “I’d love to. Though, I should warn you, I’d read it quickly. Once the women of King Falls hear that I’ve relinquished by _In Another’s Arms_ series to the public library, there’ll be a line out the door.”

“You’re funny,” Emily said, a giggle. She was looking at him, thoughtful. Her eyes were clear.

Ben’s heart turned, painfully in his chest, and he smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hummingbird because: they're extremely pretty, unassuming, but WILL directly fight a bigger, stronger bird if it threatens them. // Cicero - a senator during the fall of the Roman Republic. Extremely intelligent (like Emily) and extremely steadfast on his beliefs and principles (even if some of those principles were definitely....Of His Time).
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read so far! This is such a silly idea. Thank you for indulging me <3


	3. There are Terrible Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy and Octavia settle into King Falls.

There were many wonderful things about living in King Falls that Sammy hadn’t predicted. It shouldn't have come as such a shock, but he truly hadn’t considered that there might be…well, there might be more than _one_ reason to travel to the town.

There were idyllic things in the valley - Sometimes it seemed like the beauty of the town came as a runoff from the mountains, twisting through the undergrowth like streams.

During the day, when he couldn’t sleep, Sammy would follow those streams. Follow them by feel and scent. Octavia, his shadow, had no difficulty keeping up with him. In fact, she seemed more at home here than she had in the city. Her hind blended into the taller ferns. If it wasn’t for the constant, tugging bind between them, Sammy might have lost sight of her.

He watched, quiet as she bent down, one day, to drink from a clear, snow stream. It looked right. It felt right. He ran a hand along her head as she raised it from drinking.

“You suit the forest,” Octavia told him.

Sammy smiled wryly. “You know, I was just thinking the same about you.”

“Well,” Octavia said. And she stopped. Like she didn’t know what else to say.

And so, they carried on.

The higher up Sammy and Octavia climbed, the older and bigger the pines became. Sammy felt like he was walking through a maze of resting giants, looking down at him, their heads caught by the clouds.

They came to an outlook, a perch high over the town. Sammy and Octavia stood together and looked down towards King Falls. With the sun setting, the town looked as though it had emerged from a pleasant dream, dusted with the nostalgia of a pleasant memory. It was beset with gold and twinkling lights. Even as they watched, and the air darkened, the lights of the houses began to turn on, blinking up at them like so many eyes.

“You need to tell Ben about Jack,” Octavia said. Her voice caught on his name.

Sammy closed his eyes. “Octavia. Enough.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Sammy, you have to tell him. You have to…to _trust_ him. Trust _someone_.”

“Octavia.”

“You can’t do this alone.”

Sammy looked at her. “I said _enough_.”

Octavia stepped forward. Her huge eyes met his, unrelenting. “I won’t watch you hurt yourself without saying anything. I won’t. I refuse.”

“I’m not hurting myself,” Sammy assured her. “And I’m not alone.”

“I don’t count,” Octavia said flatly.

“Of course, you count,” Sammy said. “Octavia—"

“And you _are_ hurting yourself, by the way,” Octavia added, bitter. “Terrifying yourself into inaction like this…Sammy, it’s not…it’s not _right_.”

“I’m not interested in what _you_ think is right,” Sammy told her. Cruel. Rude.

“Fine,” Octavia said.

As Sammy and Octavia picked their way back down the mountain in the settling night, they were both silent.

-

There were strange things in King Falls as well. It seemed to float in between where reality sat - odd symbols drawn into drying concrete, clouds that spelt words (‘HELLO’ and ‘REPLY’ and then, a few days later ‘PLEASE’), green smoke coming from a house’s chimney.

Sammy and Octavia didn’t buy into most of it. They took turns explaining it away - optical illusions, smoke, mirrors, misdirection – they’d been to Small Town America before. They were more amused. He and Octavia, in their numerous conversations on the topic, end up agreeing that they couldn't begrudge the town for doing their best to make a living.

What Sammy didn’t excuse, and what he did his best to explain away, were the terrible things. Tim Jensen disappearing, people with shining eyes who seemed to appear and disappear as Sammy turns his head to look at them directly. Tiny footsteps in his ear, a voice on the wind he couldn’t shake, a chill down his spine a bath did nothing to address.

He brought it up with Octavia, but she just twitched her tail, the white underside flashing up, and changed the subject. It was frustrating, but Sammy resolved not to pick on her for it.

The quietness as a side effect of her obvious nervousness was serving Sammy one respite – she didn’t speak so much about Jack and Boadicea.

They went hiking more and more. Sammy was trying to exhaust himself into properly sleeping, cramping his calves again and again. And though it seemed to work for him – after a few weeks of regular exercise, his dreams were a far cry from the continuing horror that they had been when he’d first arrived. And it seemed to also Octavia well – her fur began to shine with health and darken as though it had thickened. Her eyes nearly glowed, her nose was wet, her thin body grew more muscular.

“Octavia is looking different,” Emily commented, when he and Octavia ran into the librarian and her hummingbird, Cicero, down main street a few weeks after arriving. “Is she…bigger, somehow?”

“I don’t know,” Sammy said, turning to her. “Are you feeling like you’re slightly higher off the ground, Octavia?”

Octavia looked down, considering the distance between her nose and her feet. “No,” she decided.

Sammy passed on the message to Emily, who considered Octavia thoughtfully. “Hm, well, fair enough. Something _is_ new, though.”

Octavia was growing increasingly quiet as the days passed. When Sammy finally snapped and asked her what was wrong.

She turned on him, angrier than he had seen her in a long time. “There’s only one thing I want to talk to you about, Sammy. And you won’t talk about it, about _him_. I miss…I miss _her_ too, you know. I miss…I miss _both of them_.”

And when Sammy didn’t say anything, she only grew quieter.

-

Octavia became friendlier and more talkative around Dido. They seemed to be a good balance for each other – Dido would bark and nip and dance around Octavia’s hooves, always excited to see her, and Octavia would lend the pair some quiet dignity, bowing deeply whenever they met.

“Dido really digs Octavia, by the way,” Ben said, pausing between his scarfing bites of pancake one morning after a show at Rose’s diner. “She thinks she should be in like, _Downton Abbey_ or something.”

Both looked to where Octavia was lying down, her legs tucked next to her. Dido had her paws up on Octavia’s back, yipping, tongue out, tail wagging furiously.

“You guys watched Downton Abbey?”

Ben’s eyes grew wide. “Uh, _duh_ , Sammy. It was a cultural moment.”

Sammy grinned. “I just didn’t pick it.”

“I obviously didn’t watch past season 3,” Ben said, authoritatively, spearing a strawberry at the end of his fork. With great practice he pulled open the maple syrup and coated it, turning the strawberry at the end of the fork like it was a fondue. “But then, who did?”

“Right,” Sammy said, trying not to laugh. He looked down at Octavia and Dido, who were still playing together on the floor. “But, seasons one to three—”

“Couldn’t fault them,” Ben said importantly. He was about to eat his strawberry before he paused. “I mean, other than for the obvious reasons.”

“Right,” Sammy said, having no idea what he was agreeing to.

“Oh, Dido and I wanted to know,” Ben suddenly said, pointing his emptied fork across the table at Sammy. “Ron’s taking us out onto the lake this arvo. Would you like to come?”

“Onto the lake?” Sammy asked. He raised his eyebrows. “With Ron? Will there…will there be _room_.”

“Sure,” Ben said, then he hesitated. “Well, so long as Dido sits on my lap. But she doesn’t mind.”

“Right,” Sammy said, still unconvinced. Ron’s giant bear dæmon, Cassandra, was the reason Ron typically walked from his hut by the lake into town. Sammy didn’t know that they made boats big enough to take all of them.

“Don’t worry so much,” Ben advised him. “It’ll be fun. Are you in, or what?”

Sammy decided to take Ben’s advice, and he relaxed back. Ron, he figured, probably wouldn’t have invited all of them if his boat was likely to sink. Especially because, as far as Sammy figured, he probably had to get the thing specially made and designed to account for Cassandra’s girth in the first place. “Fine. Sounds good. What time?”

“I’ll pick you up at 2,” Ben said, beaming. Sammy watched with a fond terror as Ben shoved another forkful of pancake into his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear because.... man big and nice. // Cassandra because she always told the truth just like Ron we love the king and queen of truth telling!!!!
> 
> Boadicea was a great celtic warrior who fought against the Romans! She represents hope and doing the right thing, even in the face of unconquerable adversity! I thought she'd be a good companion for Jack :').


	4. An Anniversary of Sorts // Punch That Guy in the Face, Please, for the Love of God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the new year, and Sammy and Octavia have a lot to remember.
> 
> //
> 
> Sammy and Ben attend the 7th annual Best Small Town in America Awards :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two oneshots for the price of one.......

One year.

Sammy looked back at Octavia as he went to switch off the light to his apartment. She was watching him with soft, candle-coloured eyes.

“One year,” she said softly.

“A year,” Sammy agreed.

She came closer to him, pressing her head into his thigh. Sammy sighed and bowed his head for a moment, pressing his hand to the top of her ears. Her warmth, her fur, Octavia.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Sammy told her.

Octavia looked up at him, her ears flicking. “You would have been ok,” she was serious. “You would have had Ben.”

Sammy hesitated. “I don’t—”

“Not like that,” Octavia assured him. “Sammy, come on, I—”

“I know.”

She considered him for a moment, and then, wistfully, “Dog dæmon.”

Sammy closed his eyes. He swallowed, running a hand along the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

He snapped the light off, and he and Octavia climbed into the car. The new year smelt like snow, to Sammy. But there was something bitter on the air as well. Something that called to him, from far away. Acrid like burning. Acrid like a year wasted.

Blackened and bruised.

#

Sammy Stevens hated Mayor Grisham.

The town knew it, the Mayor knew it, the Mayor’s red-eyed raccoon knew it. Ben, bless him, with his anxious, darting eyes, knew it too.

Sammy and Ben looked on as the Mayor climbed the stage to accept the award for the Best Small Town in America. From beyond the perch that had been given to Benny and Sam, they could see most of the town. Herschel (with his unruly grey wombat dæmon) and Cecil (with the golden koi he had to carry around in a small tank) were standing close to the stage – Emily was off to the side, surreptitiously reading a book. Archie was on his phone, in a furious fight with what sounded like someone from e-bay. Mary, her sparrow on her shoulder, were standing and talking with Ron, who had one of his hands tangled in his giant bear dæmon’s fur.

These were the people Sammy was cutting the ribbon for, _not_ the mayor. _These_ were the people who made the town great.

“From 660 on the radio dial – let’s hear some applause out there. Mr Sammy Stevens, from the Sammy and Ben show!” and some murmurings. “yes…of course.”

“Slight change of plans, ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome back to the stage, Mr Dusty Reynolds!” Sammy’s already boiling blood reached fever pitch.

Ben stared at the stage, incredulity growing by the second. “What the _f_ —”

“Oh,” Sammy narrowed his eyes. He felt Octavia stand beside him, felt her anger as his own. “I’ll be back.” He started striding towards where the mayor was currently standing. Grisham was staring at him, smiling like a Cheshire cat. “Post my bail, Ben.”

He didn’t look back as Ben sputtered his surprise. Dido barked after them, but neither Sammy nor Octavia were of the mind to turn back towards them.

Sammy ran up at the stage, taking the stairs Grisham had taken two at a time.

Grisham turned as Sammy came towards him. Sammy could feel all the eyes of the town tracing his movement. Grisham snarled, and looked close to foaming at the mouth. His raccoon dæmon hissed at Sammy and Octavia as they marched, climbing on top of Grisham’s shoulders. “You’re done Stevens, done! I’m going to rip your _fucking head off_!”

The raccoon leapt at Octavia just as Grisham punched Sammy in the face. But Octavia had hooves, and Sammy had about three inches on the mayor. Sammy was not a fighter. He didn’t believe violence had a role in settling personal disputes. Namaste, kumbaya and all that stuff. But getting the mayor in a headlock, dodging his pitiful round house kicks and punching the mayor, right in his stinking, smarmy, smart-ass face was the strongest burst of serotonin he’d ever felt.

Octavia and the raccoon fought – though Octavia looked delicate, she was hardly someone to cross. All their exercise into the mountains had made her strong, and she’d ended up chasing the raccoon in circles around the stage, her hooves clicking against the wood.

As Sammy was wrestled away from the mayor by Troy, the line between him and Octavia became strained, and she hurried towards him.

Sammy looked out into the crowd and met Ben’s eyes. He could heat rushing to where the mayor had hit his right cheekbone. He winked.

Ben grinned.

-

Ben and Dido, as requested, posted Sammy and Octavia’s bail a few hours later. Troy led Sammy out, Clara, his rabbit, hopping behind them, nose twitching. As soon as Sammy and Octavia appeared, Dido rushed to sniff at Octavia. She yipped her worry, running around and around, searching for scratches and injuries.

“That was really stupid,” Ben told him, as the four of them walked to his car. The sun was setting on the Best Small Town of America day, and the orange glinted off the windshield of Ben’s car.

“Stop laughing, then,” Sammy smirked.

Ben twisted his face into an unconvincing scowl. “I’m not!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herschel - wombat. Ok, so I'm from Australia (obviously) and cars will like...crash into wombats and the wombats will be fine and run off and the car basically gets totalled. They can also run at 40 km/h like imagine if this tank of an animal was charging you at 40 km/h....what would you even DO. I also patted one once because I was at Wilson's Prom and it came into our campsite. It STANK so bad. Ok.
> 
> Cecil - koi fish :((( sorry Cecil stans. I wanted to give him a gold fish but due to Certain Events this seemed mean. SO, pretty koi. 
> 
> Grisham - raccoon. Purely for in canon reasons. Lol. This one's for you Ben!!!
> 
> Troy's isn't mentioned but I gave him a rabbit and her name is Clara.


	5. What on Earth Happened to Tim Jensen?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim Jensen has returned to King Falls, but he's come back...untethered.

“I don’t think it is journalistically justifiable to talk about what…what _you’re_ talking about, Herschel,” Sammy said seriously. Ben was nodding his agreement on the other side of the room, rubbing Dido’s tummy with his toes. “This is—”

“ _It’s fuckin’ unnatural_!” the man exploded. “ _If some doo-hickey ready-or-not alien fella tried to separate me and Mez—_ ”

“Herschel, we don’t _know_ if that’s what happened,” Sammy snapped.

“ _Don’t you interrupt me, Pretty Boy. Now let me speak, or I’ll shove the first amendment—_ ”

“Dump the call, Sammy,” Ben advised.

“ _Don’t you dare!_ ” Herschel snapped over the phone.

“Dump the call,” Octavia said, looking up, irritated from the floor. “Think about how Mary would feel if she heard this.”

“I am sorry, Herschel, but we do have to run an ad,” Sammy said quickly, saving face. Ben looked quickly down at his schedule, chewing on his nails. He gave Sammy a thumbs up. “So we will have to let you go. King Falls, we will return, right after this.”

Ben pressed for the ad, and the two of them stood. Sammy ran a hand over his face, letting his headphones fall to the ground.

Ben said nothing for a moment. “He had a point, Sammy.”

Sammy groaned. “Et tu, Ben-ay?”

“I mean, come _on_ , Sammy,” Ben’s eyes were wide. “Tim Jensen returns to King Falls _without his dæmon_?”

“We don’t _know_ —” Sammy stopped himself. “Look, we know that…that _experiments_ have happened with dæmons and humans being spliced from each other…and we know that it’s terrible and extremely invasive and…and _traumatising._ And Tim is our _friend_ , Ben.”

“Well,” Ben said. “He’s _my_ friend. You didn’t really know him.”

“Fine,” Sammy allowed. “But Mary, at least, is our friend, and I think we owe it to her to keep her family’s business within the family for as long as we can.”

“Fine, fine,” Ben raised his hands in surrender. “I just think it’s…” Ben grimaced, reaching for Dido. As if feeling the same, she pushed up, front paws on Ben’s thigh. Sammy looked for Octavia, and she picked herself off the ground, coming to rest her head on his lap. “I think it’s the worst possible thing I can imagine – having your dæmon taken away.” Ben shook his head, dazed. “It would be like…like losing a limb. Or…or…”

“Losing who you _are_ ,” Sammy finished for him, solemn. “But, see, this is exactly why we shouldn’t talk about it like we’re gossiping—”

“I agree with you, Sammy,” Ben assured him. He smiled, tilting his head. “That was me, just before, agreeing with you.”

“Right,” Sammy said. “Right, sorry. I think I just..."

"It's just..." Ben ran a hand over Dido's nose. She sniffed at him. "So weird."

"I was going to say _distracting_ ," Sammy said. "But, you know, weird works."

Ben looked grim. He pulled Dido onto his lap, holding her close to his belly. She dug her face into his shirt, her wagging tail presenting itself to Sammy. 

"It's not natural," Octavia said, in her low voice. She looked up to Sammy, angry. "It's not right."

Sammy imagined it, suddenly - life without Octavia. Who would he have been, without her? What would he have done? A voice at his side, a presence in his corner, always. As persistent and loyal as a shadow. Someone who knew him, _really_ knew him. Knew what to say. Knew when to keep quiet.

Sammy would wake, sometimes, in the mid-morning when he climbed into bed. Octavia slept on the covers beside him, her slight weight compressing into the mattress. In the darkness, he would reach his hand towards her, feeling her warmth, her softness. Closing his eyes and matching his breathing to her long, slow, sleeping breaths. 

Sammy reasserted himself, reminded himself of where he was. Of what he needed to do. "We should get ready to get back to air. We've got a couple of seconds left on this ad."

"Right," Ben said, though he sounded hollow, distracted. And he kept Dido, where she sat, on his lap, for the rest of the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty all for reading!!!
> 
> If anyone has time, and is Australian, it would mean a lot to me if you signed this petition:  
> http://chng.it/T7Q9YssN78


	6. Allodial Title

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Wright asks Sammy Stevens to accompany him to a wine and art class.

Jack Wright wasn’t the sort of person you said no to. He had this compelling way of making you feel seen, making you feel needed.

“It should be fun,” he told Sammy, voice as heady as perfume. He was standing above the table, his books gathered in his arms. Around them, the library was easy with the soft quiet of many people concentrating. Sammy glanced down, seeing Bodie playfully yip at Octavia The doe raised her chin, scandalised. “And it's not super expensive.”

“Well,” Sammy said. He swallowed. He was intensely aware of how easy it would be for the people sitting around them to hear their conversation. He pictured those people now; listening, scoffing, laughing, texting their friends. “I mean, you can't talk me out of a bargain.”

He jerked when he heard whispers behind him. Jack didn’t seem to notice, and Sammy did his best to recover, pretending he was attuned to the low voices, pretending he wasn’t mortified – certain that they were gossiping about him. 

Jack brightened, a bright smile. Sammy felt like his heart was tightening in his chest. _No_ , he told himself. _Not now. Not like this. Not ever._

“Well, Bodie and I will come and get you,” Jack told him, beaming. “How does 7 sound?”

Sammy lips felt numb. “7 is…7 is good.”

“Great!” Jack said, a little too loudly. Behind him, someone _shushed_ , and he turned around, whispering a high, “ _Sorry_!”

Jack mouthed a farewell, eyes glinting under the harsh library fluorescents.

When Jack and his dæmon left, Sammy felt as though he’d been run over by something. Light headed, he ran his fingers through his hair.

It took him a few minutes, but he gathered the books dashed over the desk and stood. Octavia roused herself beside him, stretching out her long legs beneath her. The two of them walked without speaking to the returns chute, and maintained their silence until they had walked out the front doors of the library and into the silence of the early afternoon.

“Was that a…” he looked at Octavia. She looked up at him, eyes wide, shocked. He reflected that the ‘ _deer caught in the headlights_ ’ idiom had never aptly described his dæmon more.

“I think that was a date,” she told him seriously.

“I mean, he did call it a _group_ art lesson—”

“It’s an art _class_ ,” Octavia corrected him. “In fact, it’s an _art and wine_ class. Textbook first date.”

Sammy felt his cheeks pierced with red. He felt full of conflicting emotions – embarrassment, shock and glorious, untempered anticipation.

“He doesn’t think I’m—” Sammy pulled up as he passed a group of students crossing the grounds. He recognised one of them from one of his media classes, and he nodded and smiled at them. The girl smiled back, her squirrel dæmon chattering on her shoulder.

“Well, you are,” Octavia said, when the group of students had passed.

Sammy couldn’t help the smile. He tried to scowl it away. He was 19, and angry, and scared. 19 and terrified. Terrified of how much he wanted to go. The smile returned when he pictured it – Jack drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Boadicea yapping out the window. Jack holding his hand, Jack smiling across at him, Jack leaning in closer, and closer—

“If it is…I should call him, and, you know, make sure,” Sammy said, distracted.

Octavia scoffed. “Why?”

“Because…”

“Because _what_? You’re going to cancel? Sammy, it’s _Jack_.”

Sammy said nothing, looking down at his hands, picking them through, his fingers tangling and untangling; and tangling again. He wondered what it would feel like to hold Jack’s hand, to have that smile, bright and beautiful, a foot away, an inch away, whenever he needed it.

“Right,” Sammy said. He blinked. “I wonder what Lily would say.”

“Lily loves you,” Octavia said, and Sam knew she didn’t mean to come off as flippant, but he winced anyway. “And Lily loves Jack.”

“Exactly, Lily loves Jack.”

Octavia sighed. “How exactly have you overthought this one?”

“So, she would probably hate whoever he…” What was he going to say? _Dated?_ Jack _may_ have asked him on _one_ date and his response what that they were _dating now_?

Sammy ran a hand over his face. Embarrassed.

“If Lily loves Jack,” Octavia said. “Then she’ll want him to be happy.”

Sammy said nothing. He looked up as the dank, gathered clouds began to open up, water trickling out. Octavia looked up as well, and then to Sammy.

“I hate puddles.”

“I’m not carrying you, we’re like _5 minutes_ —”

“It just takes _so long_ to get all the mud out of the fur—”

Sammy just sighed, bending down to collect Octavia in his arms. She bundled up to him, satisfied, nearly purring. He felt her little, pinging heartbeat under his hands.

“You’re getting heavy,” he said, though she wasn’t.

“You need to get back into the gym,” Octavia snarked back. When he only offered a muffled grunt for a reply, she adjusted herself so that her head rested back along her back. She closed her eyes, and sighed in contentment.

-

Sammy stared at the ceiling. The quiet mid-morning sounds of King Falls trickled in through the half opened window beside him. The air outside was too cold for it, but he needed the openness, the new clarity.

Octavia was dozing beside him, weighing down the doona on top of him. She shuffled, her weight tugging on the mattress over Sammy’s chest.

“ _His house is in the village though_ —” he barely exhaled, making out the words as silently as he could.

Octavia's shifting weight rustled against the bed. Blearily, she made out, “Did you say something?”

Sammy let the silence sit. Octavia sighed and settled once again. He let the time fester, moved his eyes slowly from the corner of the roof, to corner, to centre and back, like his eyes were tracing the seconds.

“Octavia—” he started.

“Oh my God, go to _sleep_ ,” she muttered. “We have to be at Emily’s thing in like, three hours.”

Sammy went quiet.

Octavia sighed and turned. He didn’t look, but he could imagine she’d picked her head up, imagine that she was looking at him. “What?”

“Do you remember how you used to make me carry you whenever it rained?” Sammy asked. He was still staring at the ceiling, like his thoughts might make some more sense if catalogued up there.

Octavia was silent for a moment. Then, “Yes.”

“You said you didn’t like the puddles,” Sammy said, smiling. He didn’t know why, but a tear leaked from the corner of his eye. He blinked and it ran down the side of his head and onto a pillow.

“I remember,” Octavia said, her voice was muffled again, she must have turned away. Sammy still didn’t look to see her. And on the ceiling, his thoughts marched on.

-

“Absolutely not,” Octavia said, scoffing.

Sammy threw down the shirt with irritation. “Why don’t _you_ pick a shirt for me to wear then.”

“Sammy, if you think you can go on a first date with a t-shirt that says _My Other T-Shirt is in the Dryer_ , you’re going to be alone forever,” Octavia was sitting on his bed, her legs tucked in under her. She was looking at him with a very serious expression.

“Thank you, Octavia, for your extremely helpful words of wisdom,” Sammy snarked.

She switched her tail, sounding smug. “You’re welcome.”

Sammy held up a baseball shirt, red arms. “Ok, well, what about this?”

Octavia shook her head violently. The bed beneath her shook. “Absolutely not. What are you, 5?”

Both of them stood to alert at the sound of a knock at the door. Then scratching, and a heavy, panting breath.

“He’s here,” Sammy said, eyes wide. He looked down at the baseball shirt. “This is going to have to do.”

Octavia had stood up on the bed, her eyes wide, she looked frightened. Sammy watched her as he swapped one shirt for another.

“Are you alright, Octavia?”

She looked at him. She sounded… _reverent_. Lost in something deeper, bigger than herself. “Is this what you’re feeling?”

Sammy swallowed. “I—”

Muffled, through the door, “ _Sammy_?”

“Shit,” he cursed, shoving the shirt down his front and running his hands down to flatten out any wrinkles. He hurried to the door of the studio dorm. From his bed, he could feel Octavia’s eyes on him.

The door swung open, and Jack stood, eyes shining. At his feet, his white, fluffy dæmon sat patiently, her tongue hanging out of her mouth.

“Hey!” Sammy said, realising he sounded like he was out of breath. He tried to swallow it away, but it only made his next words sound garbled. “Sorry – was just putting on the finishing touches.”

He rubbed his chest and coughed lightly.

Jack was still smiling; a knowing, mischievous smile. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Sammy stood back, and held the door as Jack and Bodie walked in. The white dog immediately bounded into the room. Running at Octavia, she pulled up as she got to the bed Octavia still stood on, sitting at the bottom, waiting patiently, her tail wagging.

Octavia looked first at Sammy, and then at Boadicea, and then back.

Sammy shrugged at her lightly. Octavia looked like she might faint, her thin legs more frail than Sammy had ever see them.

“Sorry about Bodie,” Jack said. “She can be a bit enthusiastic.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry,” Sammy turned back to Jack. Sammy pressed back, leaning against the sink behind him. Jack was wearing a button down shirt. He was freshly shaven. He smelt good. He was looking at Sammy so softly that Sammy could feel himself beginning to melt. “Octavia is a bit…well, I would say _precious_ , but it doesn’t begin to cover it.”

At the sound of her name, Octavia looked up, made an irritated noise, and then leapt from the bed. Both Jack and Sammy watched in joint, quiet amusement as she landed gracefully in front of Bodie. She let the dog sniff at her, regarding the white dog in turn with a deep bow.

“How was the library after I left, anyway?” Jack asked, just as Sammy said, “Can I get you a drink?”

They both looked at each other, and laughed at the same time.

“A drink would be great,” Jack offered.

“I’ve got wine, beer—”

“I always thought beer was a little straight-laced,” Jack said, smirking like he’d made a joke. “How about that wine?”

“It cost $5.50,” Sammy said, because it did, and because he felt like he needed to say something. He pulled the pinot from the fridge, slamming the door and turning back. “And—” he pulled two mugs that were drying off the side of the sink. “This is all I have for wine glasses.”

“Those are cute,” Jack said, stepping forward, and taking one from Sammy to study it. He was smiling, amused, and he was _so close_. Sammy took a slight inhale and unscrewed the top of the wine bottle. “ _I put the Tea in Trouble_ ,” Jack held the mug next to his face, pouting. “Sammy, that’s _adorable_.”

“Maybe you should have worn the printed tee,” Octavia called across the room.

Sammy ignored her. A warm feeling – not like the red blush of anxiety, or the gathering purple of anger – but soft and kind and welcome drifted up his neck.

“Here,” Sammy offered the now opened wine bottle. Jack held his cup forward obediently. “And the library was boring, by the way.”

Jack looked at Sammy over the top of his mug as he took a sip. “ _After_ I had gone.”

Sammy poured his own wine, turning his concentration. He kept his eyes stuck to it, it felt like he was saying more than he was, but he had to, he _needed_ to—“Yes. After you had gone.”

-

Sammy remembered the rest. All of it. Played on loop in his head, empty and banging like a curse. How they _hadn’t_ gone, in the end, to the art class.

 _We have wine here,_ Jack had said.

 _And we have art_ , Sammy had said, because the wine bottle was nearly gone, and he had been staring into Jack’s eyes.

They hadn’t slept together that night. Sammy didn’t have everything ready. He hadn't wanted to presume. He wanted to be safe, he wanted Jack to be comfortable, _he_ wanted to be comfortable.

So they had kissed instead, sustained and warm. Sammy remembered how kissing Jack had felt – like drinking nectar, like coming home.

They spoke all night. Sammy had class in the morning, and Jack had a shift at the café on campus, but neither of them thought to mind. Sammy learnt a lot about Jack – things he hadn’t known before. Like that Jack was left handed, that Jack could spell every word in the Webster dictionary up until _cantelope_ , that Jack could remember all the lines to _Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening_.

“ _The woods are lovely, dark and deep,”_ Sammy whispered out loud.

He could feel, on the bed, that Octavia was extremely still. The tiny movements, the ones that he had counted, the ones that told him she was breathing, were gone. Octavia was awake, though, that much was clear. She was listening.

“ _But I have promises to keep_.”

“I didn’t hate puddles,” Octavia said suddenly. And Sammy didn’t know then, and would never know, whether she was interrupting him because she wanted him to stop speaking, or if his speaking had spurred her towards a greater openness.

“What?”

Sammy pushed up onto his elbow, looking at the figure in the low light.

Octavia, now, was the one who wasn’t looking. “I didn’t hate puddles. I didn’t even really dislike them.”

“I…” Sammy started. He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what that means.”

Octavia still wouldn’t turn. Still faced away. “I wanted to be held by you.”

Sammy swallowed. “Octavia—”

“Before I settled, you would hold me all the time,” Octavia said, voice low, slow. Sad. “Hug me tight. I feel strained when I’m away from you.”

“I…” Sammy started, and stopped. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I thought if you knew, you’d stop,” Octavia said, and she shifted, turning tighter into herself.

“Octavia—” Sammy started, but he stopped himself when he saw she wasn’t moving, wasn’t responding.

Sammy stayed like that, for a moment, looking at Octavia’s turned back. Then slowly, slowly, lowered himself back into bed. Was he supposed to hold her now? Reach out to her? Run a hand through her fur?

He looked back at the ceiling, and those thoughts returned – Jack smiling, reaching his hand out. “ _Come on_ ,” his memory said. “ _I have something to show you._ ”

And Sammy followed him, staring at the ceiling. Emily’s party was in a few hours. Ben would notice if Sammy seemed poorly rested. But Sammy had things to do, promises to keep.

And miles to go before he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's dæmon, Boadicea, is a white lapphund, which is a danish dog known for chasing deer. 
> 
> And yes I know Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening is overdone (and THANK you for that, Reese Witherspoon) but it's still good :>


	7. Anniversaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben, Sammy and Chet celebrate one year of Sammy being in King Falls.

“Sammy, dude, it’s your _one year anniversary_! That’s not a hallmark holiday, that is a _monumental milestone_ ,” Ben was so intense Sammy had to pull slightly away from the table. He couldn’t help but smile, though, at Ben’s extended, palpable enthusiasm. “Can you believe - It’s been exactly a year since you moved here, since the show started!”

Dido barked her agreement.

Sammy exchanged a look with Octavia. A small smile. “You know, it really doesn’t feel like it.”

Ben was quick and defensive. Sammy thought he might have heard Dido growl. “What does it feel like?”

Across the desk, Ben was staring at him. What did he feel, when he sat here? With Ben, and Dido? In an old radio shack where the light flickered for two minutes before it properly turned on, where the coffee tasted like battery acid?

What was this place, to him, now?

“Home,” Sammy eked it out. He wanted it to be softer, but…but it had been a year.

Ben’s grin split his face. “Aw! Sammy! We always knew you were a big old softie. Give us a speech.”

Sammy raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”

As the show continued, and the contagion of Ben's enthusiasm reached nuclear levels, Sammy struggled to keep a permanent grin off of his face.

As the show continued, Chet arrived, swinging through the door, cool as a cucumber, his black cat Dæmon Venus in his wake.

He greeted them with a smoothed "Hello, boys."

"Chet," Ben said, torn between loving the festive energy of three people hosting at once, and a deep concern that Chet would say or do something to ruin the moment. Venus didn't wait for an invitation either, leaping onto the table.

"Show off," Octavia muttered from where she'd sat at Sammy's feet. The black cat sat on the table, licking at her paw. Even her purring sounded smug.

They pulled out a chair for Chet, and a microphone too. The three of them settled easily into conversation, laughter.

It didn't take too long before Ben hit the switch and pulled out a commercial. Chet took the opportunity to pass around his flask.

"Home brew," he called it, with a sly smile.

Octavia stood when Chet passed the flask to Sammy. She inspected it with the tip of her wet nose, sniffing at it, baulking away and then sneezing.

"Bless you!" Ben said from across the table. Dido yipped in agreement.

Breathy and slightly strained, she made out, "I think he's trying to _poison_ you." Sammy looked at the flask itself curiously – it was definitely…from a different time, if the exaggerated size of the woman’s breasts who adorned the front was anything to go by.

Ben snorted when he saw it. “Chet, is there anything you own which _isn’t_ disrespectful?”

“That there is a beautiful lady,” Chet said smoothly. “Nothing disrespectful about that.”

“Chet, it's alienating and inappropriate—” Sammy started.

“I mean, it’s clearly disrespectful! It's objectifying—” Ben started at the same time.

“Boys,” Chet raised his hands. “I am sorry.” Venus leapt from the table and onto his lap. “How about you two drink up, so I can throw the thing out and buy something a little more…” Venus miaowed. “ _Modern_ for next time.”

“For the _two-year Sammiversary_!” Ben said excitedly. And Dido barked, jumping up and down, her tail wagging so furiously Sammy thought it might spin right off.

Sammy tried the liquor – a foul tasting _something_ that burnt on the way down. He pulled a face as he passed it back to Chet, who laughed at him.

“My, my boys,” Chet said in his slow, turning way. He patted Venus slowly, running his hand across her black fur. “Here’s hoping this puts a bit of hair on your chest.”

They returned to air with the same robust enthusiasm as they’d left.

Sammy tried not to feel worried as bad things started happening, as mysteries started accruing.

Mysteries, and King Falls, he figures, walked hand in hand. He tried to convince himself, with some success, that he’d have been _more_ concerned if nothing of note had happened.

And nothing _too_ bad ever happened in King Falls. Moments like Tim disappearing were outliers. Bewildering deviations. To be categorised, remembered, but then, ultimately, disregarded.

And something terrible happening…well, it wouldn’t be tonight, Sammy figured, reaching for Octavia for comfort, easing his nerves by running a hand through her fur. It couldn’t be tonight – not when Ben had gone to so much effort. Not when Ben was so happy. Sammy thought Ben might be able to keep the world in tune for one night by will alone. And if anyone, anywhere, had been able to keep the world from collapsing by will alone, it would have been Ben.

And he managed to believe it – the small comforts he gave himself, right up until Emily’s frightened voice came up and out of the phone line.

“ _Ben_?” Shattered, terrified, _Emily_. In the background, Sammy could hear Cicero singing.

And the world ended and started again. And all the terror and beauty of King Falls seemed of coalesce into one, unbroken moment.

“ _The rainbow lights are following me_.”

Ben was so anxious his hands were shaking. Octavia had stood up from where she’d been sleeping on the floor. Her eyes met Sammy’s, skated away, looked for Dido.

Octavia called for the dog, but Dido was as entranced as Ben was; a high, keen whine coming from her throat.

“Don’t stop the car, Emily, how far away are you?”

All the memories came, unbidden – Emily smiling so sweetly that first day they’d met. How Cicero had flown around Sammy’s head all the times he’d come to the library. How eager Emily had been when Sammy told her he was looking for old town records, old books, anything not damaged in that fire. And Emily had been so kind, so helpful.

“You _have_ to be safe.”

“ _God they’re…. they’re getting closer_!”

Ben was crying now, tears slick down his face. He looked up at Sammy, and Sammy could see the track marks glow in the red light coming from the phone.

“ _It’s coming, oh my god…oh my god!”_

“EMILY!”

“Ben, help me, _please_!” Emily’s voice was becoming more and more distant. “Ben!”

And the phone went dead. And the dial tone sounded.

From where she sat on the floor, Dido lifted her head and howled. A deep, mournful howl. Sammy felt his eyes fill with tears.

He looked at Ben, but Ben was fixated on the phone, pressing buttons, trying to get Emily back. Dido howled, louder and longer.

It broke Sammy’s heart.

“Emily please…please don’t do this!” Ben broken, voice hoarse. _“Emily?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not suuuper happy with this chapter but you know. Whatever!!
> 
> Chet's dæmon is named Venus because goddess of loooorve baby.


	8. Carthago Delenda Est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dido settles when Ben is 14.

Dido had settled when Ben was 14 and a half. It was old to be settled. Too old by a year, if Ben’s urging at 13 was anything to go off.

“I know you’re trying,” he would tell her, as she fluttered down and onto his hand as a sparrow, parsing into a sugar glider to hang off his finger. “But just about everyone else has settled. It makes me feel like I’m being left behind.”

And Dido had tried. _Really_ tried. She stayed a sparrow for three days straight, but she got tired of being so small and transformed into a bear cub. She stayed like that for four days until a tugging, deep pain started in her chest – and she only got relief in changing again.

“You’re not allowed to hurt yourself like that,” Ben had scolded her, rubbing his chest where her insistence in remaining had hurt him as well.

“You want me to settle,” she had protested.

“I don’t want anything that hurts you,” Ben said. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I didn’t know.”

There were theses on dæmons settling – entire scientific theories on how and why and when and for what purpose. Dido had read none of them. Ben’s mother’s dæmon, a kangaroo called Neville, had told her that it would feel as natural as thirst, as hunger. As sleep.

“You won’t realise it’s happening until it’s done,” he told her. She had turned into a baby roo, and hopped closer as he lectured. “And once it’s done, suddenly the done thing will feel normal. Does that make sense?”

Dido hadn’t understood, but she nodded anyway.

As Ben turned the corner from 13 to 14, Dido noticed his mother looking at her with increased worry.

Over that summer, Troy’s Clara settled into a grey streaked rabbit. Ben had grumbled as Maggie’s Silas turned into a primed poodle, fluffy and white.

Ben was being left behind.

When Dido finally came into her own, she understood what Neville had been talking about. One day, she could slip through forms, as malleable and free forming as water rushing down a stream. And then, the next day, she woke up, and she was _it_. There was nothing beyond what she was now.

She had been sleeping at the end of Ben’s bed as a bear cub, and now bounded across his sheets as a beagle.

“Ben,” she barked, pushing her new paws onto his shoulders, jostling him awake.

He groaned into his pillow. “Dido? _Cripes_ can’t a man get some—”

“I’ve settled! I’ve settled!” She was jumping on him now, crawling over him, a few bad decisions away from licking his face to rouse him. “Come on! Come on, today’s the day! Ben! I settled!”

Ben had been so excited that he’d nearly fallen out of bed, tangled in his sheets. He picked up Dido and held her close to his chest, running through the house and slamming into his mother’s bedroom.

She roused herself with the same initial disinterest as her son, before her eyes flew open properly, and her face split into a smile.

Ben unloaded Dido onto his mother’s bed, and the dæmon jumped up and down, barking, tail wagging.

“Well done,” Neville told her, nodding his serious head. “You have become something good and useful.”

Dido had been self conscious in the car ride on the way to school. She cleaned her paws with a darting pink tongue once, and then again. She should have been a turtle – scales were so much easier to clean. She should have been a monkey, with little hands to hold things for Ben. She should have been a horse, or a camel, so Ben could have been carried if he was too tired to walk.

He sensed it. She knew he did. Because he reached for her and scratched under her head.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, because Ben was the sort of person who always said the right thing to say, and she could feel through their bond that he meant it. “And I love you so much.”

-

Something about the Danny Zuko get up put a spring in Ben’s step. Might have been the leather jacket, which he’d tossed over his shoulders, or the coiffed hair, giving him a new inch on Maggie (though she still wasn’t allowed to wear heels, even for the final scene, which she was not happy about).

Dido had made fun of him for wearing the costume for the entire day, but the jacket was real leather (his mother had given it to him with a small smile from the box of clothes his dad still had stacked at the back of the closet) and white t-shirts were hardly something to write home about.

Something about Danny Zuko made Ben feel strong. He didn’t really like the guy that much – he was sort of a scoundrel. He’d always like Rizzo the most, even when he was young and the after-school care teachers would set all the kids up in front of an ancient TV to sit through another showing of _Grease!_ On an old VCR.

Danny cared about what people thought of him. Rizzo pretended she didn’t, but she did. Sandy didn’t care, but she learnt to care. Ben still didn’t know what was right, which character made the right change, what the movie was trying to say. Was it saying be true to yourself? Be true to your friends? Be true to your school?

Maybe it was a bit of all of them. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a love story.

Maybe Ben just felt stronger because he liked the idea of people singing about their feelings to a strong beat with a cool choreographed dance.

He’d finished the dress rehearsal, Dido snapping at his heels. She had been bored for the practice. They had set up a divide in the middle of the screen so that the dæmons could hide from the audience without being too far from their humans, and Dido had spent nearly 2 hours dozing under a steady stream of changing lights.

“I’m not trying to make you angry,” Dido barked. “I just think you’re a bit pitchy in _You’re the One That I Want_.”

Exasperated, Ben turned back to her. “Dido, that’s how _he does it_.”

“Who’s he?”

“Danny!”

“No!” she scattered around, her paws padding on the linoleum floor. “That’s how John Travolta does it. And no offence to Mr Travolta, Ben, but you’re better than him.”

“Thanks.” Ben said. Then he narrowed his eyes. “Is that a…compliment?”

“I don’t know,” Dido sat down, tail absently wagging. “I only speak truths.”

“Great,” Ben said, starting again, and Dido jumped up to follow him. He pushed the front door open, a chill herald of the coming night sent by the mountains swept up through his jacket.

King Falls High was not a big school. Everyone knew everyone. It was why it didn’t take Ben too long to recognise the two kids off by the bike rack. Greg Frickard – he recognised the bulbous frog _ribbet_ -ing on his shoulder. And the other kid, Hugh Ulysses, by the blonde curly hair.

“All of them!” Greg had his hand outstretched. “Right here!”

Something about Danny Zuko made Ben feel strong.

“Greg! You little... _frog_ ,” He barked out, sparing no thought and charging towards the frog-attached boy. “What—”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you, _Arnold_ ,” Greg turned, meeting Ben as he approached.

Ben ignored him, stalking past and helping Hugh to his feet. The boy was young, his dæmon still hadn’t settled. Ben watched as the little thing crept out from the top of Hugh’s shirt as a tiny lizard, before turning into a sparrow, settling and small, on Hugh’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?” Ben asked him.

Hugh nodded.

“No, he’s not alright!” Greg snapped. “This little piece of shit stole my—”

“I didn’t!” Hugh gasped out. “I promise I didn’t! I don’t…I don’t even know who you are!”

Greg turned to Ben, triumphant. “See?”

Ben scoffed. “See _what_ , exactly?”

“He’s a liar!”

“Wh—he’s a liar because he doesn’t know who you are?” Ben demanded.

Greg nodded, victorious, vicious. “See!”

Ben sighed and turned to Hugh. He picked up his bag and handed it to him. “Go on, get out of here.”

“What! No _fucking_ way!” Greg snarled. “No _way_ , Arnold. This little piece of human excrement stole my Pokémon original deck and I want it the _fuck_ back!”

Ben was speechless for a second. Dido made up for it by growling very loudly. “This is because you _lost your Pokémon cards_?”

“Not lost,” Greg snarled. His eyes flicked dangerously to Hugh. “ _Stolen_.”

Ben was nonplussed. He turned to Hugh again, advising him, “Look, buddy, if I was you, I’d leave now.”

“I didn’t take them!” Hugh cried out, and Ben felt, for a moment, a sort of kinship with this boy. He couldn’t bear anyone call him a liar. He couldn’t bear being misconstrued.

“I know,” Ben said. He turned back to Frickard, scowling. Dido barked loudly. “And this shit head knows it too. He’s just embarrassed because he’s going to have to ask his Grandma for some money.” He turned his full attention to Frickard. “Which _is embarrassing_ , by the way. You should get a _job_.”

Hugh stumbled a bit, walking backwards, before running off.

“Listen here, Arnold,” Frickard started.

But Ben had his dad’s jacket on. And his mom had given it to him. And he felt brave today. And forever, since the beginning, Ben had hated bullies.

“No, you listen,” Ben leaned forward, bearing down, even though Frickard had about three inches on him and a bit (ok, a lot) more muscle mass. “You’re not allowed to go around picking on people who are smaller than you just because…just because girls don’t like you, or whatever your stupid little hang up is.”

Greg was glowering. “Girls _do_ like me!”

“Whatever!” Ben exclaimed. “Not the point! Can’t you just _try_? Why are you so obsessed with making people feel miserable? Why do you think that…that making the world a more horrible place for everyone to live in will make _you_ feel any better? Life is already so terrible for everyone! Don’t you think we owe each other a little bit _better_ than that?”

Greg leant back and smirked. “You’re jealous.”

Ben was so floored he has to take a moment to gather himself. “I’m _what_?”

“Ben,” Greg said magnanimously. “I _know_ you’re jealous that Olivia Parkinson said yes when I asked her to Homecoming. I _know_ you have a big. Fat. Crush. On her.”

Ben rolled his eyes so hard he thought he might accidentally knock himself out. “Oh my GOD.”

“It’s fine! It happens,” Greg’s ego was so huge Ben was surprised he didn’t float off into the aether.

“See you round, Greg,” Ben said, humourless, turning on his heel.

He was faintly aware of Greg yelling something after him, but his anger was so full and deep that it clouded his mind. It was another minute of speed walking before he slowed and ran a hand through his hair.

“I hate that guy,” Dido said. Chirped.

“Yeah,” Ben shook his head. “Man. Maybe he’ll grow up after high school.”

“I won’t be holding my breath,” Dido said.

Ben looked down at her with interest. “Can you do that?”

“Hold my breath?”

Ben nodded.

Dido stopped, entangled in concentration. After a moment, she started walking again, and Ben kept pace with her. “Nope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was unsure about giving Greg a frog because he like......eats those. But then I sort of fell into a world building mess so I decided not to think about it.
> 
> Thanks for all the reviews and kudos, it's very nice and good and i love you and am in love with you.
> 
> Also Kangaroo for Ben's mother because of Winnie the Pooh and it's called Neville after Neville Bonner because I name all my dæmon characters after notable people from history.


	9. Knock Down the House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy and Ben take to door knocking to help with Ron's mayoral campaign.

"Thanks for doing this," Ron’s voice was rough and kind – booming like a pounding drum. He clapped his dustbin hand on Ben's shoulder. 

Ben tried to smile, so he looked up and half laughed. "It's no problem, Ron. And, you know, good to get a bit of exercise. Hit my step count."

Ron laughed, a rough booming laugh. "You're a good egg, Ben."

Ben ducked his head. "Aw, Ron. I bet you say that to all the volunteers."

"Naw," Ron shook his head and crossed his arms. "Just you."

" _I've_ definitely never gotten such a memorable compliment," the flat, amused voice announced Sammy's arrival. He was holding the door to Ron's unofficial-official campaign office, letting Octavia step in before him. She looked ethereal in the midmorning light, her eyes catching the slices of light from the window. Her long legs were silent on the carpet. She might have been a ghost, or a dream. 

At Ben's feet, Dido stirred, her tail beginning to slowly shake. 

"Sammy!" Ben perked up.

"Hey, Shotgun!" Ron boomed. Behind him, Aphra made out a low, chuckle noise in the back of her massive bear-throat. "Good for you to join us. Was just about to send Benny out by himself."

Sammy pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head, leaning against his bun, and smiled his soft smile. 

"Well, we couldn't have that."

Ron turned back to Ben. "Now, you shouldn't have any issues. Sammy here is basically a veteran at this point, and I've had nothing but medium to good feedback about him so far."

"Medium to good?" Sammy asked, raising his eyebrows. "Jeez, Ron, who's been saying medium things about me?"

"Grishom voters," Ron told him, knowing.

"Now that _is_ impressive," Ben said, wry and only half joking. 

"How are you getting feedback from people who aren't voting for you?" Sammy, bemused. 

"I have my way, Sammy Stevens," Ron informed him loudly. "Don't you worry. The Begley campaign has only the best data analysts in the King Falls Greater Area." 

“Aren’t you paying that 15 year old who does Archie’s taxes to do it?” Sammy was grinning. Octavia tilted her head to the side, considering.

Ron nodded sagely. “Exactly.”

Ben paid half a mind to Dido as he felt her walk away from him. She was sniffing up at Octavia. And Octavia, closing her eyes, greeted Dido in turn with a deep bow. 

Dido yapped excitedly, her tongue hanging out of her mouth. 

Ben nearly properly smiled. He really nearly did. But then...and his mouth puckered away. And he had to look up, to Ron, to Sammy, and pretend Dido's unadulterated joy at seeing Octavia felt through their bond didn't just make him feel resentful and alone. 

"So, are we doing this?" It came out slightly more biting than he'd planned, but neither Sammy nor Ron seemed to pick up on it. 

Ron handed them their binders and told them to follow the script he'd stapled onto the front. 

"No major deviations," he grunted, and then looked intently at Ben. 

Ben had opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better and ruefully closed it. 

Sammy handed Ben some sunscreen before they set off ("UV is off the scale today, Ben. I even put some special cream on Octavia's nose.")

Ron told them to be back in a couple of hours, that he'd have some pancakes and coffees waiting for them to debrief.

Sammy scanned the map as they left the lot on main street.

He narrowed his eyes. "It's saying we need to go north, but—"

Ben rolled his eyes and scoffed. "give it here."

Sammy did, sparing only a small smile. "I thought Beaumont street was south—"

Ben shook his head. "No, no, Beaumont _avenue_ is south. Beaumont street is up here." Ben pulled the map down and turned, gesturing up behind the store. Ben went to hand the map back, but Sammy shook his head, pressing the map back down into Ben’s fingers.

"I think we take advantage of that local knowledge, Ben."

The first walk would take them 15 minutes. Octavia and Dido led the way, Octavia drifting along, her white tail barely swaying as she strolled. At her feet, Dido leapt and barked and danced. Her tongue hung out her mouth. 

"How many of these have you done?" Ben asked.

Sammy screwed his face to recall. "Just a few. Maybe...maybe three? Not as many as I'd want." Sammy smiled. "And not enough to call myself an expert, no matter what Ron might say."

"I believe the word was _veteran_ ," Ben grinned. 

Sammy looked half embarrassed. "Oh."

"I think you came up with 'expert' all on your own there, big guy."

Ben felt himself slow down as they came to the first house - an old California style bungalow with a rotted fence and a letterbox that said 'absolutely no hawkers, under _any circumstances_! '.

When Ben pointed it out to Sammy, all he got was a shrug.

Sammy had a hand on the gate, if squeaked as he pushed it open. "hey, we're not hawkers."

"But doesn't it mean they want to be left _alone_ \--"

"Best not to think too deeply about it," Sammy advised. He and Octavia turned and strolled confidently to the doorway. 

Ben stood, frozen for a moment. At his feet, Dido whined, her eyes wide and glassy. 

"I don't want to," she said. 

"We have to," Ben said seriously. How has he spoken so freely, so easily, on radio for so long for an audience of _thousands_ (ok, _hundreds_ ) and now struggled to walk up and speak to just _one_ person?

"No, Ben, you don't understand," Dido was whining again. 

"What is it?" Ben asked, looking up. Sammy and Octavia had reached the front door and seemed to be talking to each other, both watching Ben and Dido.

"I _really_ don't want to," Dido made out, desperate. 

_I'll be brave_ , Ben thought, and he decided it was a decision. Here, now, and for always, taking the brave choice was taking the harder choice. The gate squeaked when he opened it. Dido was still sitting, staring up the walk with a pained expression.

"Come on, Dido," Ben said, soft, gesturing for her to follow. "I can't do this without you."

Hesitantly, she pawed through the gate. And then, together, they met up with Sammy. 

Sammy knocked for them, and Ben adjusted the binder beneath his hands. He shifted once to wipe his right hand on his pants, and then again to wipe the sweat off his left palm. 

After a moment, and then another, Sammy knocked again. 

Ben's racing heart began to slow. He looked at Sammy curiously. 

"No one home," Sammy said, sounding unsurprised. He made a note in his binder and turned. 

Ben didn't move for a moment. He felt cold, like a rush of adrenalin had just escaped through his bloodstream. 

"Wait--"

The next house had no one home either, and so did the next. The house after that had a harried mother who apologised abruptly and told them, in hushed tones, that she'd just managed to put her baby down to sleep, but that she'd take a brochure. 

"Are they all like this?" Ben felt bewildered. Dido was skipping again, her old nervousness faded. 

"Most folks are out in the middle of the day," Sammy confirmed, shrugging lightly. "And the rest...well, it shouldn't feel as revolutionary as it does, but they're all basically normal." He cast his mind back ruefully. “The worst thing that’s ever happened to me was when this lady gave me a look up and down and then just closed the door.”

“Up and down?”

“I didn’t even tell her I was canvassing,” Sammy grinned. “I just think she didn’t like the look of me.”

Ben laughed. 

The next house they came to, a young woman opened the door. She looked at them curiously, a parakeet dæmon on her shoulder. She might have been in her early 20s. When she pulled back her hair, she had a tattoo of the parakeet below her ear.

"Hi," Sammy laid his voice thick and charming. He had his sunglasses pushed into his head, smiling at her. Full charm offensive, then. "I'm Sammy, and this is Ben. We're with Ron Begley for Mayor, and we were wondering if you had a few moments to talk about the upcoming mayoral race?"

She blinked at them both, face blank. "Oh, uh, I don't vote."

Sammy recovered quite well. Ben had to remind himself to close his mouth after it had fallen open in irritated shock. "I see. Are you living with anyone?"

The girl shrugged. "my mom, I guess. But she's voting for Grishom."

"So, you're not voting, and your mother's voting for Grishom," Ben said flatly. Sammy immediately turned; his eyes wide with warning. Ben simmered down. 

The girl cleared her throat. "Uh, yeah. I only vote in federal elections and mom has voted for Grishom like her whole life."

"He's run unopposed for ages!" Ben burst out.

The girl was beginning to turn defensive. "So?"

" _So_ of _course_ she voted for Grishom!" Ben made out, words falling over each other in their rush to leave his mouth. "she didn't have another option!"

The girl looked at them both, a strange look settling over her features. "I think I know where I recognise you guys from."

"We're on King Falls--"

She pointed at Sammy. "You were the guy that punched the mayor that time!"

"Thank you _so_ much for your time," Sammy said smoothly. Behind him, Octavia was already edging down the path. "And have a _lovely_ rest of your day."

The door closed behind them as they made their nasty retreat. 

"You can take it out at any time you know," Dido snapped snidely. 

Ben didn't want to humour her, but it wasn't in his nature to let things lie. "what?"

"The _foot_ in your _mouth_ ," Dido said smugly, walking with a rather supposed purpose, chin held high.

Sammy laughed as soon as the gate closed behind them and they were safely away. "Oh my _God_. What a _disaster_ ."

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Ben said, feeling awkward. Dido was dragging behind them. "I didn't--"

"Oh! Don't worry about it," Sammy said. "I mean, obviously, try to be a little more--"

"Normal?" Dido barked. 

"Quiet?" Ben ventured. 

" _Diplomatic_ ," Sammy settled. "You'll get the hang of it. Oh!" He clicked his fingers, looking excited. "And that was as bad as they get! Sort of awkward and uncomfortable."

"You’re _sure_ we aren’t about to get chased out of town by some over-eager assault rifle?" Ben asked, half joking, still serious. 

“Imagine chasing us all the way out of town. That’s like, 15 miles on foot.”

“They could drive,” Ben said, feeling less and less like he was joking.

"Ben," Sammy said flatly. "it's a mayoral race. The average Joe and Nancy don't even realise that there's a local elections coming up, let alone have gotten invested enough to work up enough energy for that."

Ben screwed up his face. "You know, not as comforting as I thought."

"No," Sammy agreed.

"People _should_ care," Ben could feel himself getting worked up. "this is...this is _important_ . Apathy is why people like Grishom can get away with...with neglecting things."

"Neglecting Emily's disappearance," Sammy stopped and turned. Ben stopped too. When he looked up, he could see himself reflected in Sammy's sunglasses. 

"Amongst other things," Ben said unconvincingly.

"Look, Ben," Sammy said, and he placed a comforting hand on Ben's shoulder. It took everything Ben had not to lean into it, to loosen, to sink to the ground. "I might not be an expert, but I've really learnt doing this that most of the job is just trying to get people to care in the first place. Inspire them. And then, when we get them there, when they're engaging, it's clear to anyone that Ron is the best choice."

Ben felt the warmth of Sammy's hand through his shirt. Felt the sun on his face. He felt the grim determination he carried with him, lead in his chest, give, just slightly. "All you can do is the work."

Sammy clapped him once and then withdrew his hand, smiling. "Exactly. Now, where's the next house?"

"Uhhh…" Ben scanned the map and span on his foot. "Back this way."

Three more no answers and one non-citizen later, and both of them were standing before a well kept house with a nicely manicured lawn. 

"After you," Sammy offered, and Ben took the lead, pretending to be more confident than he felt, knocking on the door with three loud raps. 

Movement behind the door, before a guy in his mid-30s pulled it open, looking at them both with a hesitant surprise. 

"Hello?"

"Hey there," Ben jumped in. "This is Sammy and I'm Ben. We're just coming around to check in on all you guys because well...we're talking today to people about the mayoral race. We're actually here for Ron Begley," he jostled his binder to pull out Ron's brochure. He handed it to the man, who took it hesitantly. "he's--"

"Have you heard about the race?" Sammy interrupted smoothly. He had his binder open, the script laid out. 

The man looked slightly taken aback, glancing at Ben before answering. Ben widened his eyes as a small monkey crept up from behind the man and onto his shoulder, clinging onto the guys' neck. "Uh, no. I hadn't heard anything."

"That's alright, it's in two months," Sammy said. "What do you know about Mayor Grishom?"

The man looked slightly wry. "Are you kidding?"

Sammy did his best not to look put off. "No, sir?" 

"Who knows _anything_ about Grishom?" The man laughed. "I couldn't even tell you how to spell the man's name."

"That's going to make it hard to vote for him," Ben said.

Sammy looked over, and the man snorted. "Good point. Maybe I'll vote for your guy by default."

"Well," Ben shrugged. At his feet, Dido had strewn herself over his left toes. The day's sun had left her tired and hot. "A vote is a vote."

"It seems to me that you haven't really decided who you'll be voting for this election?" Sammy said, sounding painfully desperate to return back to the script. 

"No," the man said. Ben felt a flirting pain at how bemused he seemed. 

Desperate, he clicked his fingers. " _Now_ I know where I've seen you before! Have you ever been to Rose's, on main street?" Ben hadn't, in fact, ever seen this man before in his life, but the guy _had_ to have been to Rose's. Either that or he was a Frickard frog person, and the entire point was moot anyway. Ben could not comprehend that anyone who enjoyed frog could also have enough taste and common sense to vote for Ron in November. 

The man took the bait, he nodded. "Yeah, of course. I go there all the time. Did you--"

"Sorry, man, you just looked so familiar and I couldn't put my finger on it," Ben said grinning. "Should have know it would have been Rose's. Everyone ends up at Rose's."

The man laughed. "Well, for those pancakes--"

Ben nodded, eyes wide. " _Exactly_ . We've actually been going there heaps to meet up with Ron - Rose has a big soft spot for the guy."

The man looked momentarily confused. "And Ron is…?"

"Our candidate," Ben tapped on the brochure, fighting the edge of irritation from spilling into his voice. He thought he might have heard Dido mutter " _moron_ ", but he didn't pause for long enough to check. "Whenever we can get him away from the lake." Ben laughed broadly. “But you know, old Ron, he’s a total work-a-holic. Hardest working person I’ve ever met.”

"Lake...oh! He doesn't run the bait shop, does he?"

"He _sure_ does," Ben felt Dido sit up, roused by the growing excitement she must have felt through their bond. "have you ever been down there? Because if not--"

"Of course I have," the man sounded excited. "best tackle this side of North America."

Ben laughed. "Big call!"

The man laughed too. " _Huge_ call, and it also doesn't help my credibility that it's the only tackle shop I've ever been to—"

"Don't worry," Ben waved him away. "Sammy here has been to every single one and he can absolutely back you up on that."

At once, both Ben and the man at the door turned to look at Sammy. Octavia had been standing on the opposite side of Sammy, but now she turned her nose towards him, one ear flickering. Both of them were looking at him with twin sheens of pride in their eyes. 

"Yeah," Sammy said, and it took him a moment too long to turn his attention away from Ben and back to the man. "Can confirm. Nobody holds a candle to Ron. In tackle _and_ in politics."

It took a little more directness to get the man to commit to voting for Ron.

When he did, Ben shook his hand. "Thank you for your time."

Sammy and Ben were back out on Beaumont street fifteen minutes after they had knocked on the man's door. Ben felt lighter than air. 

"Sorry I went off script, Sammy," Ben said, though he wasn't really. Up ahead, Dido had barrelled her head into Octavia's side. Octavia looked down in irritation.

"Ben, that was _incredible_ ," Sammy said. "I don't want to _ever_ hear you apologise for something like that _ever_ . You hear me?"

Ben ducked his head to hide his growing, goofy grin. "I hear you, buddy."

“Hey,” Ben turned, and Sammy was smiling at him. “I know…I know these past weeks, months, really, have been hard on you, Ben. But I want you to know that…and I might…I might say this a lot, but I know that…”

Ben looked at him curiously.

Sammy continued. “It takes courage to be…to be as strong as you are all the time. I know how this works, Ben. I know how alone you must…you must sometimes feel. And we worry about you.”

Ben tried to keep the moment light, he winked down at Octavia. “Has Sammy roped you into this as well, Octavia?”

She considered him for a moment, tilting her head.

“Ben,” Sammy pressed. “This entire town cares about you. They’re all rooting for you.”

“I know, buddy. I…thank you.” Ben felt soft. He looked down, feeling his shoulders rise. At his feet, Dido let out a low, keen whine.

“I’m gonna give you a hug now,” Sammy said, but he waited for Ben to look up.

Ben grinned, brushing away the tear at the corner of his eye. “Bro-hug it up.”

Sammy pulled him in, laughing. His voice became muffled as he pulled Ben in tight. “Are we gendering hugs now?”

“I was doing it ironically,” Ben said, pulling his arms tight around Sammy’s waist, burying his face into his shoulder.

“Oh,” Sammy said, laughing again. Ben could feel the laughter vibrating in his own chest, coloured in gold, settling next to where he kept his centre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm like um how did Ron win the election against an incumbent if he didn't have an extremely dedicated Grass Roots campaign??
> 
> (Also low-key writing this chapter had me thinking - how big is King Falls anyway??? Big enough for a high school, its own sheriff's department and its own AM radio frequency??? Is that normal??? I don't know anything about small towns)


	10. Mortifying Ordeal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy and Octavia go for a hike after Sammy accidentally gets a peek into the notebook.

Sammy started hiking again the day after it happened.

_Who is Sammy Stevens?_

Step and root, rock and log. Muscles burning. “Come on, Octavia!”

The tie between them, invisible in the air, had been pulling taut. Octavia broke from behind a tree bank, hair sticking up in clear irritation,

“Not all of us have freakish long man legs,” she told him shortly.

“Not all of us were _designed to move quickly through a forest_ ,” he snapped back. “Keep up. I don’t want to have to keep waiting for you.”

“I know you’re angry at Ben,” Octavia snapped back. “But don’t take it out on me.”

“At the moment, I’m _irritated_ at you,” Sammy informed her, nearly yelling.

“Sure,” Octavia said, lowering her head slightly. She got like this, sometimes, surly and distant. She didn’t like it when Sammy spoke to her loudly. And, had he been in a more rational frame of mind, he probably could have understood why.

They came to the same lookout – the one where Octavia had told Sammy off for keeping Jack to himself.

He sat on the ground, the midday sun had warmed and dried the grass underfoot from its night-time dew.

Octavia took her time getting to the ground, folding her legs beneath herself and settling onto the ground.

“I’m nearly shocked you didn’t say _I told you so_ ,” Sammy tried. He looked at Octavia. She just twitched one of her ears and said nothing.

More silence. Sammy looked out, but he was unseeing.

What was he supposed to say? To Octavia? To the Jack, in his head, who was watching him with the same unreadable expression he always pulled out whenever he disagreed with something Sammy had done? What was he supposed to _be_ , now?

_Who is Sammy Stevens?_

How the _hell_ was he supposed to know?

Sammy leant forward, holding his forehead against his palm. The world felt like it was tipping over.

“Damn it,” he said, feeling his throat dry, tighten. He swallowed, and then roughly looked up as his eyes welled. They would _not_ overflow. “ _Damn it_.”

It took a concerted effort of looking at the sky for the tears to fold back into his eyeballs. He roughly ran a hand through his hair. It was getting long – too long. Unless he got a haircut, pretty soon he’d need to tie it up to keep it out of his eyes.

“For what it’s worth,” Octavia said finally, after what felt like a millennia. He looked over to her warily. “I still think you were wrong to keep it from Ben.” Before he could snap at her, she continued, “But I also thought he’d have enough to trust you.”

“It’s just…” Sammy started, and then he stopped. “It’s easier to just _not_. To just…”

Octavia shuffled over, and he closed his eyes as she rested her head on his knee.

Sammy ran a hand over her head, watching as his fingers pushed through her fur, slowly, and then again, from neck to near the white spots on her back.

“If I could tell anyone,” Sammy finally said. Then, fondly. “Other than you—” Octavia looked up at him and blinked “—it would be…it would be Ben. It would.”

Octavia nodded. “I know that, Sammy.”

“But he doesn’t,” Sammy said, feeling the roughness of it in his mouth. It tasted like tar. “And he’ll never know it because I…I couldn’t tell _anyone_ , I can’t tell _anyone_. I just…I go to do it, and I…I find a million other things to say.”

Octavia didn’t need to say anything, so she didn’t. Sammy felt his chest clench as she lay her head back down on his lap.

“Jack would have done a better job of this than me,” Sammy laughed humourlessly.

Octavia jerked up quickly. “Don’t say that. I don’t…Sammy. _Sammy_. Do _not_ —”

“If I’d been taken, he would have hunted me down he would have…he would have found me within the fucking _hour_.” Sammy swallowed. “He’s braver than me.”

“Stop doing this!” Octavia demanded. She stood angrily, head lowered, like she was preparing to fight. “You know I can feel it, when you _do this_ to yourself, right? I can _feel_ all the…the _hatred_ , Sammy. It makes me feel _sick_.”

Sammy’s guilt only grew. “I—”

“You have to stop _blaming_ yourself for something _Jack did_!” Octavia yelled.

Sammy was silent for a moment.

He felt rushing waves pushing at the side of his head.

Octavia must have known, she _did_ know, but she continued on anyway. “ _He_ was the one who left, _not_ you. _He_ was the one who…who took Boadicea away because he didn’t…because he didn’t know how to keep his nose in his _own business_.”

Sammy stared at her. “Octavia—”

“I _miss him too_ ,” she reminded him forcefully. “And I am _not_ saying that it’s time to give up. But it _is_ time to stop…to stop thinking that you’re a _coward_ , or that accepting help is _weakness_ or—”

“ _Octavia_.”

“No!” She denied him, and when he stood, she didn’t step back, only raising her head to keep her eyes fixed on his. “I _love_ you, Sammy. You are, almost literally, my _entire_ world. If anyone else had been calling you all the things that _you_ have been calling _yourself_ I would have _killed_ them. I would have…I would have taken their heart out with my _teeth_.”

Sammy looked down at her, his little avenger. Her eyes were shining in the sunlight. He felt her righteous anger through the invisible strands that connected his heart to hers.

“So, no! I _won’t_ let you talk about yourself like that.” She huffed. She stomped a hoof.

Sammy lowered himself in front of her. He ran a hand over her ears.

She softened looking at him. Something slow and dawning and breakable span through their bond. It felt like a song – a melody once known but now forgotten, rose coloured with nostalgia. Sammy wiped away the tears that felt.

He pushed his hair back behind his ears.

“Let’s go home,” he told her.

Sammy wasn’t ready to forgive Ben. And he wasn’t ready to loosen the gnawing guilt in his stomach all the way. But he let himself remember that there was love in the world that was his, and his alone, that it came without ceremony and without conditions.

The relief of it – to be fully known by someone without pretence, and be loved all the more for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl would be sick if dæmon's were real ..............
> 
> this chapter made me think a lot about like being loved without being properly known and how lonely it can be and sort of disconcerting to feel like the person who people love is the person you project, and not the person you are, but then sometimes that projection is something that the person who 'loves' you created by themselves and then obviously this turned into me disassociating for two weeks and rereading 'Maurice'.


	11. post hoc ergo propter hoc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily Potter returns to King Falls.

Ben would remember the moment he turned Emily over, her head lolling back on his lap, with an intensity that superseded any sort of dissolution by the passage of time. He remembered her eyes blinking up at him.

He remembered that she came home alone.

And he remembered how she had looked at him, with a strange, slow curiosity. How her eyes met his with a barrier of unknowing.

“Emily,” he gasped, relief flooding through him. But then, “Where’s Cicero?”

-

Emily Potter was a clever person. Her teachers told her so, when she was coming up. The librarian at her school, smiling with his eyes as she carted armfuls of books from the shelves every week told her, with a fondness that made her soul strain.

Cicero would chirp next to her ear – even before he settled, he loved to fly. Today he was a sparrow, tomorrow he might be a dove. “Did you get _What Katy did Next_?”

“No,” Emily scrunched her nose, raising her knee to adjust the mounted pile of library books in her arms. “The ending of the first book was sexist.”

Cicero transformed into a little cricket and landed on her shoulder. “I liked it.”

“Of course _you_ liked it,” Emily had told him. “You like all the books we read.”

“You’ll do your back out,” her mother said, with a fond wink and a tousle of her hair (she’d cut it short after reading _Little Women_ , because she, like so many, thought herself a tiny heir-apparent to Jo March). “With all those books.”

“Mother,” Emily had told her severely (when she was 8, she read _5 Children and It_ and had decided to adopt something a little more formal than _Mom_ – whenever she remembered). “How am I supposed to get strong enough to carry them if you won’t let me practice?”

Her mother had chuckled and tapped her nose and called her _clever_ and _rambunctious_. Those had been happy years, and those had been lonely years. Emily remembered slow dancing to the spinning vinyl her mother would put on in the front room. Emily would twirl, watching her hands pass through the dust motes in the air. On Sundays, her mother would put on Simon and Garfunkel, and when _For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her_ came on, Emily pretended that the live recorded applause was just for her.

These were the constants throughout her life – music ( _Hall and Oats, Pink Floyd, Joni Mitchell, Blondie, Nina Simone, ABBA_ ), books ( _Enid Blyton then The Once and Future King, then Jane Austen and then the Odyssey and Fitzgerald and Steinbeck and Plath and Baldwin)_ and her mother ( _kind, rose-cheeked, endlessly patient, always slightly worried)_.

She turned her cleverness into logic when she came to college. She considered everything as points, counterpoints – _major premise, minor premise, evidentiary basis, conclusion_ – whether the logic was fallacious, whether it was sound. She would take her time sounding out an issue to its bare essentials and work her way back up. _What came next?_ She would ask herself. _What should come next?_

Once she spent three days considering whether it was immoral to put indoor plants inside (it wasn’t she eventually decided, so long as the plants were watered and placed in appropriate sunlight), and once spent a whole week slowly determining whether the world around her existed (her conclusion was more of a non-conclusion – _did it really matter_?).

Emily was a classic mediator. At parties, when discussions over the global south and the benefits of post-soviet US expansion became heated, she’d be called over.

“Emily,” her friend would say, teeth barred like an animal, her butterfly dæmon settled on her hair like a party clip. “Tell this meathead that the US was at least _as_ responsible for the proxy wars in Vietnam and Afghanistan as the USSR.”

“Emily,” her competitor said, his little white pawed lemur curling around his neck, staring at Emily with wide, yellow eyes. “Tell this _idiot_ that the USSR were systematically committing _genocide_ throughout _most_ of the 20th century.”

“Alcohol and politics,” Cicero had chirped to her demurely. “My favourite.”

She broke it down for them easily – that they were both right, that they were arguing different points that did not overlap.

“What you really want to be discussing,” Emily told them. She had been holding a beer, and some of it spilled out a little as she gesticulated. “Is whether or not the immorality of one nation can discount the immorality of another. Is the universe a balancing game? And, if it is, can one person’s immoral act counteract your own immoral act, just because you’ve positioned yourselves as enemies in the cosmic chess game? And then, if you do decide on that enormous question – how exactly might we quantify the acts of one state, versus the acts of another? And then, if you decide some numerically sound way of—”

“Right,” her friend said, sounding slightly exhausted. Her butterfly dæmon slowly opened and closed its wings, still perched on her head. “Well, thanks Emily.”

Emily knew how to argue. She knew how to convince people things. The first step was to ask as many questions as you could. Ask every single question. Because you needed to understand to know what you were arguing against; you needed to be able to engage with the crux of their ideas.

( _People also didn’t like being asked questions. It made them angry. It highlighted the flaws in their reasoning before Emily had to point them out. And it was always much easier tangling someone up in their own argument when they were too distracted and irate to keep track of where exactly they had drawn the line_ ).

Was it the premise or the conclusion? Was there an illogical leap?

Emily came back to King Falls after so many months of being… _away_ , with half her head of memories missing and no chirping, wing-whirring dæmon. She found solace in retracing those practiced thinking patters; she returned more and more to what could be _logical_. Emily had used reason to get her through all of her adult life, and it had never left her down. It wouldn’t let her down today.

Premise? Emily was sick and needed treatment. Secondary premise? The best way for Emily to get better was for her to keep seeing and trusting her doctor. Evidence? Scientific articles and pilot programs and case studies and genealogical papers which all stated that lost memories could be recollected with professional help. Conclusion? Emily should do everything her doctor said.

Even if he smiled too widely. Even if he had too many teeth. Even if the way he looked at her made her feel small, categorised, numerical.

“Greg sounds like a good partner,” the doctor said at their consultation. “Very attentive.”

Emily felt for all the logic and reason she kept clean and ready for use. Using it was like using a well trained muscle, and she found the language to illustrate, very clearly, why it was that Emily felt uncomfortable by what the doctor had said: _straw-manning was an illogical reasserting of arguments on the terms of one of the parties, so that the asserting party could succeed in an unearned counterpoint._

Emily recounted what she had said carefully in her head: _Greg and I are spending a lot of time together._

“Sometimes it feels like he’s smothering me,” Emily said, clarifying what she had meant to say.

“You shouldn’t discount the people who are looking out for you,” the doctor warned her. “You can’t do this alone.”

Major premise, minor premise, evidence, conclusion: _Greg was helping_. Greg would make her better. The doctor said so. She would become herself again.

Emily wondered if she was accepting premises too easily. Perhaps she did need a doctor. But it was a logical fallacy for her to conclude she needed _this_ doctor.

Perhaps if she wasn’t so tired, she might have been able to do something about it.

-

Emily missed Cicero. Missed the sound of his wings.

She supposed she ought to be grateful that Greg didn’t care.

“You’re perfect to me,” he would croon, and she would bask in it, closing her eyes, pretending she believed him. “Anyone who tells you that you’re not enough will have to contend with _me_.”

Emily ran the argument over and over in her head. Premise: A dæmon didn’t make her whole.

Premise 2: anyone who said it did, was implying that Emily wasn’t enough.

Conclusion: stay with Greg. _Greg sounds like a good partner._ Greg was helping. Greg would make her better.

But Cicero was better at this than she was. He remembered her reading her essays over her shoulder when she was in college. “ _That’s illogical_ ,” he warned her. “ _Point A doesn’t lead to point B. You need to establish point B on its own._ ”

Sometimes she felt like she could hear him, when she closed her eyes, when she was particularly tired. Heard the buzzing of his flight. Heard his song.

“Think this through,” Cicero said, his voice moulded from memory. “What should your next step be? And what was your last step? And where do you want to end up?”

And maybe the doctor was right. Emily _was_ getting better. Not so tired anymore, with memories returning, more and more everyday.

She remembered Sammy and her sitting out on her balcony, drinking red wine. Merlot, or cab sav, or shiraz – it changed every time she went over the moment in her head.

“ _—too much to do before then,_ ” he had said. Beside him, his beautiful doe dæmon was looking up at the night sky.

Emily replayed the moment over and over. The more she did, the more she remembered less and less, until it was distorted and fuzzy, like a VHS tape that she’d recorded over.

-

“Because, the thing is, _everything_ is only correlative,” Emily said animatedly. Greg had served her a glass of wine and she was holding it, the glass balancing between her fingers. The wine was a deep red – a shiraz from somewhere across the pacific. When he had poured it for her, all she could think of was blood. “Statistics only tell us _part_ of the story. See, if you were accounting for _wealth_ disparity in the US, you might make an argument on the basis of hours worked, but that doesn’t account for all the people who _don’t_ work at all and are still heinously wealthy. Am I making sense? It feels logical that _all_ people who work more hours should have _more_ money, but it’s not true. Number of hours worked is only _correlative_ to wealth.”

“That’s nice, sweetheart,” Greg said. He was on his phone. Emily didn’t care.

She had more energy now than she’d had in weeks.

“Of course, wealth disparity is probably not a good example.” A drop of wine had slid out when she’d last taken a sip, and she swiped it up with her index finger. Against her skin, it looked bruised and purple and not like blood at all. “Though, I’m not alone in thinking that quantitative research only teaches us so much,” she continued. “I think it’s far more interesting to consider _why_ it is that number of hours worked is not causative. Logically, it _should_ be causative, all externalities removed.”

“That’s nice, darling,” Greg said, distracted.

Emily hadn’t expected him to pay attention. It didn’t matter. He’d be listening in the end. “But nothing in this world exists in a vacuum. It’s impossible to account for _all_ externalities. That’s where qualitative research comes in, which I think is so fascinating – that you need to know _what_ to account for, but the _what_ that we’re accounting for is so much more _useful_ than the original research. Of couse, the recurrence of those things, is, itself, quantitative, but…well, doesn’t that just highlight that all research ought to be properly holistic? You know flexible enough for researchers to just… _ask people_ why it is that things happen to them?”

Greg was looking at his phone, frowning slightly. She wondered if he was ignoring her on purpose. He played an idiot sometimes, but he could be perceptive. She sometimes though the act allowed him to get away with more cruelty. The ‘sometimes’, though, was becoming more and more frequent.

She smiled. “My professors had a story they would tell all the first years, I heard it about five times when I was a TA – would you like to hear it?”

Greg looked over. He looked slightly pained. “Sure, darling.”

“A bunch of quantitative researchers are asked to explain why a certain man was a murderer. Some suggest his low wealth, some suggested his poor education, but one of them comes forward and he says, well, this is all well and good, but we’re not getting anywhere. Let’s get the man out and ask him.

“They all go off and gather their research and they bring the murderer in. The one who’d spoke up before spoke now. And he said ‘so, why did you do it?’ And the man, with all the honesty in the world, says very clearly, ‘I didn’t, I was wrongly convicted’.”

Greg still wasn’t paying attention again. But Emily wasn’t going to stop now. She cleared her throat as loudly as she could. His neck jerked. He looked annoyed. She didn’t care.

“And the researchers go, but you were arrested, and you were convicted.” Emily was beginning to grow louder again. “And the man says, ‘I was wrongly convicted. I didn’t do this’. And even if he was wrong, the researchers realised that all their theorising hadn’t said anything about _why_ he’d killed – it had explained _why he was arrested_ , why he was _convicted_. And that the very presumptions they’d created – his low education, his wealth level – had been the very presumptions upon which the arresting officer and judge had based their decision of his guilt on as well.”

Greg looked desperately like he wanted to turn his attention back to his phone. He looked slightly pained. “Is that so?”

“Our teachers taught us it to remind us that quantitative presumptions are just biases with an academic flavour, to make sure we are reflective of that when we conducted our research,” Emily continued. “But I always got something else from it.” Greg was looking at her now properly. He seemed suspicious. _Good_.

_Greg loves you._

“I always thought it meant that if you were working backwards from an incorrect conclusion, the presumptions made would be, by necessary implication, at best irrelevant, and at worst fundamentally incorrect.”

_Greg would make her better._

“Was he?” Greg asked. His voice was low, lower than Emily had heard it before. She placed her wine on the bench in front of her.

“Was he what?”

“Was he guilty?” Greg pressed.

Emily smiled prettily. “It’s just a story, Greg.”

-

Major presumption: Ben Arnold was a liar.

Minor presumption: Greg Frickard had saved her from the Rainbow lights.

Evidence: Greg had told her so.

Conclusion: She ought to trust Greg, and distrust Ben Arnold.

Emily began to run the figures through her head, like she was muddling through a complicated mathematics equation. She needed to break everything down into measurable, knowable increments. Emily needed to return everything to its factory settings, reassess, and go on from there.

Basically, it went like this – was Ben a liar?

And – could she trust that he was, when all she had was Greg’s word, and Greg, obviously, was endowed in self-interest?

So, she began to take notes. She listened to the radio quietly and noted when Ben said things she thought were good and honest, and noting when she thought he was lying. She went to Rose’s diner in the morning and asked, as casually as she could, about the things she’d noted the night before.

She wasn’t as careful as she thought. Ron Begley looked at her with an intense look, something that nearly made her wince away. His bear dæmon pulled up to her full height.

“Ben Arnold is a good man.”

Emily read about him, and she read about Greg. She felt like she was putting the blocks together in a different way than she’d had them all set out before. But now they were colliding together. Now the picture emerging was beginning to make sense.

-

Emily called Ben to come meet her for coffee a month or so after she had determined that she’d made a serious error in logic; that everything she’d gathered had to be scrapped, and her project had to be started again.

Something about him made it feel less daunting.

When he came into the diner, and looked across, and smiled at her, something old and familiar twisted in her stomach, curled against her spine. For a moment, she might forget that Cicero was not singing in her ear. It was something she couldn’t reason around, something she couldn’t account for.

But when he sat across from her, and his panting, tail-wagging beagle dæmon sat eagerly beside him, it didn’t feel illogical. It felt right.

“Hey,” he said, he grinned. Emily’s heart fluttered in her chest, as fast and light as hummingbird wings. “How are you?”

“Not too bad,” she heard herself say. He watched her, nodding seriously. He had his hands on the table, his fingers were moving in a steady rhythm. “What about you?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Ben collapsed backwards. “I swear to God, Emily, this town is going to kill me.” He looked around, righteous in his fury. “Did you all hear that! Kill me! When I _die_ I hope you all get arrested for…for _second degree murder_!”

Emily giggled. “Second?”

Ben leaned forward knowledgeably. “Ah, well, that one’s easier to prove in court. Or, so I’ve heard.” He crunched his face in confusion. “Which one is second degree, again?”

Emily felt her cheeks warm up. She adjusted in her seat, self-conscious in a way she didn’t recognise – it didn’t feel bad, exactly. “I have no idea. The extent of my criminal law knowledge comes from reading _Nancy Drew_.”

“Well, Nancy was a detective,” Ben said. “And she always solved her cases. Like 100% of the time. Which is way better than the shit-house sheriff’s so-called ‘department’ we have in this town. So, I would say you’re in pretty good hands.”

Emily laughed. When she came back, she saw something fleeting – something bone-crushing and awful and sad – pass across Ben’s features.

Before she could register it properly, he was back, grinning and loud and wide eyed.

“Have you eaten? Because, let me tell you, if you haven’t…well, actually – do you remember the pancakes here? They are the _best_ – or, at least the best in Washington. Actually, you know what, I _won’t_ undersell Rose’s cooking. These pancakes are _at least_ the best in North America, _the continent by the way_ , and probably the _world_ -”

Emily will order the pancakes. And a piece of her logic puzzle – bigger than the rest – will click into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from that episode of the West Wing!!! lol
> 
> I know this interpretation of Emily is a little unconventional, but I really struggled through her memory loss and Greg-dating bit (like, can you tell - I covered it all in one chapter). I thought this was a creative way of explaining it while sort of exploring a fatal flaw in the same breath - logic is a tool - you have to know what you're looking for. If you don't, but you're still attached to rationality and reason above all else what you know to be true, and what you begin to see around you no longer comfortably coexist.
> 
> (oh and finally, thank you covid-19 for making me nostalgic for getting into political arguments at house parties. Who knew!)


	12. The Course of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily Wright she has a dæmon. Lily Wright had a brother.

When Lily and Jack Wright were young – so young that any recollection felt vague as watercolour – their mother would take them on trips to the shoreline. Jack would dirty his fingers pulling shells onto his lap. He would be very careful with them – counting them – _one, two, three_ – and then he lost count, and had to start again, and again.

His dæmon, Boadicea, would scamper around him as a gull. She liked that form best, Lily knew, for pulling out shells with her beak, pawing at them with her talons. When the shell she’d fixed on was stuck, she’d become a little golden monkey and dig it out of the sand with little black fingers.

Lily would leave her brother to his counting run into the ocean. She would always run. The damp sand was firm beneath her feet, and a wave always seemed to be spilling towards her like an unrolling welcome carpet. Her father had taught her, during their first trip, that she could either spend 10 minutes slowly acclimatising to the cold, or she could spend 2 seconds freezing; dive under and acclimatise right away.

It had seemed like a no-brainer to her. She would dive under the first big wave, feeling the water pull her hair back behind her. Patroclus would turn into a fish, a shark, a dolphin, a turtle. He liked the water cold as much as she did.

“Come on in!” Lily would call to the shore, where Jack was focusing on stacking his shell collection as high as he could.

He looked out, hand over his eyes to keep the sun out. He laughed and shook his head. Bodie would turn into a monkey and scramble up his arms and onto his head, hands pulling on his curly hair.

One night on their second trip the Wright sibling’s mother sat Jack down and told him, her voice full of apology, that he couldn’t take the shells away with him anymore because they were a part of the eco-system ( _ee-co-sis-tem_ , Jack had practiced, repeated in the mirror with a serious frown, for days and days and days). Jack was told that he wasn’t to be taking things that weren't his.

“Shells belong to sand,” their mother told him softly. “Just like Bodie belongs to you.”

Lily had been standing in the corner of the room, watching Jack quietly considered Boadicea as a dozing puppy on his lap. He had patted her slowly, and sadly, and seriously. Lily had felt guilty – like she was watching something private.

She never told him she saw. She would never forget the way his eyes had filled with love and sorrow in equal shares.

Even without the shells, Jack couldn’t be convinced to come into the water. He was still small – still barely big enough to carry his own buckets and spades along the short walk from the cabin to the sand.

Lily didn’t mind, really. She wasn’t alone, after all. Patroclus delighted in the freedom of the spray and seaweed as much as she did. Lily would swim out past the breakers and lean back, floating with her toes poking out, pointing to the distant, merge-blue horizon. Patroclus would climb onto her belly and transform into a crab, running over her skin, dancing. And she would laugh so hard she tipped back and lost her balance. Patroclus would meld into something new and both of them turned, laughing and gasping, to float over the next unbroken wave.

The years passed. Jack started school, he learnt to tie his shoelaces. He stopped holding her hand every time they crossed the road. On their fourth trip to the shore, Jack followed his big sister into the surf. Lily laughed, high and delighted. She opened her arms, like she was welcoming him to something she owned.

“Good to see you finally made it!” She teased, splashing him with water.

The trips continued, but Jack would only ever maintain only a short foray into Lily’s ocean. Even when they were practically teenagers, 12 and 10 years old. Lily never complained (loudly), and tried to keep her disappointment to herself whenever Jack ducked up and battled the surf back to shore (mostly). There wasn’t much to be done - Boadicea hated the cold. She hated the water. She would cling to the top of Jack’s head as he treaded water, shivering and wet and miserable.

“Can a dæmon dislike a thing their human likes?” Lily asked Patroclus one night down at the cabin. All the blankets were linen, the windows smelt like sea-salt. The air was thick with the heat of summer and the hum of cicadas. Patroclus had curled into her side as a red panda, bushy tail curled up between them, tickling Lily’s nose. “There’s nothing you don’t like that I like.”

“No,” Patroclus agreed. “But I think maybe Bodie doesn’t hate it as much as she pretends, and Jack dislikes it more than he would say.”

“Why would they do that?” Lily asked, wrinkling her nose. “Why not be honest?”

She stroked Patroclus’ face. He folded into it.

“Why do anything?” Patroclus shrugged. Lily sucked back a sigh and an eye roll – Patroclus thought himself extremely wise. Sometimes he offered small pearls of wisdom. But the word _sometimes_ was doing a lot of work to that contention.

-

Lily Wright had called every single person in her mother’s address book when Patroclus had settled into his form.

She remembered her brother had to keep coming down to ask her when she’d be done so he could use the internet.

“Jack,” she had said, in her most grown up voice. “When Boadicea settles, you’ll know exactly how this feels, and I won’t get angry at you for taking your time.”

Jack had just groaned and dragged himself back up the stairs, each time.

“A jaguar,” she told her grandmother. Patroclus looked at her from the ground, pleased, his tail flicking. “Completely black. Yes.” Patroclus licked at his paw, cleaning, preening. “He’s beautiful, Gran.”

She felt slightly sorry for Jack when his dæmon settled – a dog. A snow white lapphund that left fur all over the back seat of his car. Dogs were nice, dogs were friendly.

But dogs weren’t a jet-black jaguar.

When he was 16, skinny and braver than anyone Lily had ever met, she had watched him lining up to play Rugby in the local league. She had curled her fingers in worry – she looked at the team with a deepening horror and counted a tiger, a lion, a feral dog, a hawk. At the end of the line, Jack was mouth-wide-open-laughing, his snow-white dog panting, her tongue poking out, her tail wagging.

She clenched her eyes closed. “Let me know when it’s over.”

Patroclus growled a, “I was just about to tell you to do the same thing.”

Lily watched, because one of them had to. She noted with pride that Jack was good – fast. A clever player. He sniffed out the holes in their defence with a keenness like instinct. When he scored his first try, Lily leapt from her seat in the stands, cheering so loudly her throat ached.

He came off the ground at the end of the game with a fat lip. Bodie was coated in mud. Lily tried not to rush down from the stands, but she had been siting rigid and worried for nearly an hour. Movement felt good, felt like purpose, felt like release.

“What’d you think?” Jack’s eyes were bright when he grinned at Lily.

She just pulled him into a hug ( _ooft_ , Jack would gasp, but she could hear the smile in it).

-

Even when Lily had gotten to college, she was proud to show Patroclus off.

“Fully black,” she told her dorm mates, her new friends, the lecturers, the professors. “A jaguar. Yes.”

When Jack, Lily and Sammy started up in Florida, she had thought that the fact that her dæmon was an apex predator would keep her safe. Sammy was nice enough – friendly, if a bit sarcastic – with a doe dæmon about as threatening as a bouquet of wildflowers.

But it was hard not to be jealous when Boadicea and Octavia started to lie together on the floor of the radio studio. She figured it was because Patroclus always stayed at her feet. She decided it was because Patroclus didn’t _want_ to be that close to them.

But it became other things as well – Patroclus becoming too big for them all to travel in the same taxi, so Sammy and Jack went ahead, while she came up after. Or trying to get into restaurants, and having to wait for a big table so that they could all fit together.

 _Fit together_. Lily hadn’t given it much thought back in those days, but reflecting, that’s how it _felt_ – like they fit together.

She supposed, much later, that she really hadn’t been paying attention.

When Jack and Sammy told her about…their situation, Lily had been supportive. She even covered for them a few times; when Jack slipped an ‘ _our’_ for a _‘my’_ , when Sammy passed his hand a little too affectionately down Jack’s arm. Lily had perfected the art of clearing her throat, changing the topic of the conversation, throwing herself onto their pyre.

When Jack and Sammy left, with Octavia and Boadicea, Lily had cried for three days straight into Patroclus’s fur. She felt empty and embarrassed. Her pride felt infected. She couldn’t keep food down. She couldn’t focus on anything. Nothing had mattered, nothing she had ever done. None of the love she had ever felt. Nothing she had ever thought was important.

But Lily Wright was not a quitter. Her dæmon was a big cat, an apex predator. And that had to count for something. So she gathered herself. Lily Wright dusted herself off. She squared her shoulders and became something bigger, something _better_. The new Lily would be _whip smart_ and a _bitch_ and _cool_. This new Lily wouldn’t be the mask, but the substance. The old Lily was a sacrifice she was willing to spare – she offered her old softness’s to the altar and received everything, _everything_ , she asked for in return.

From the heights she’d climb to as _this_ Lily, nothing would ever be able to touch her again.

-

Lily rolled up to King Falls with Patroclus, her crew and so much resentment she made the air thick.

It felt apocalyptic, showing up in Kings Falls. It felt like she was going against everything she had been forcing herself to become over all the years of _serious_ journalism. A town of spooks, of frightening things, a town her brother had been obsessed with. Lily didn’t kid herself, though, she knew its biggest crime was that it was the town where _he_ lived.

As Pippa pressed the break for a red light along the main street, a breath caught in Lily’s throat.

Patroclus, who had been dozing, his head resting on her lap, looked up. She could imagine his confusion as the bind between them tightened with resentment and anger. “Lily, are you alright?”

“Fine,” her voice was hoarse. He knew she was lying. Why was she lying?

“Lily?” Pippa, from the front, but Lily didn’t reply.

Patroclus couldn’t see what Lily could, trapped down by her feet.

“Lily,” he tried again. “What is it?” He was hesitant. “Is it—”

“It’s _him_ ,” bile in her voice, a bitterness she could never wash away. She had recognised Octavia's slender legs and graceful step before she had recognised Sammy. His hair was longer. He wore it on top of his head in a bun. His face was scruffy – he looked tired, drawn.

 _Good_ , Lily thought fiercely.

He didn’t look at the car as he walked past. Lily felt her stomach tug as Sammy looked down at Octavia and laughed. His eyes still crinkled, his smile was still slightly crooked. 

Hatred. A benevolent, justified hatred.

“Lily?” Pippa tried again. “Is there—”

“Nothing,” Lily said, though her tone was as poisonous as a viper. “There’s nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lily's dæmon is a black jaguar and his name, Patroclus, after the character from the Iliad.


	13. Jude the Apostle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy and Octavia deal with the aftermath of Greg Frickard's ad read. (post ep 68).

Sammy’s hands were shaking. He tightened his jaw so shut he thought he might never open it again.

Ben drove him home. It was barely 3am. He switched on a 3 year old episode pulled out randomly from the archives. They had it on over the radio as they drove through the soft-orange dawning light.

“… _two purl stitches and two regular…_ ”

Sammy sat in the back, his hands rested on his knees – palms down. He’d never been so angry in his life. Panic and fright and anger. If he moved, he knew it would spill over.

Octavia wasn’t looking at him. She was as rigidly still as he was. Sammy needed her to say something to him.

As he watched, she blinked. It was the only sign of life.

“ _…begin to bind off now, three stitches, and then purl three_ …”

As they pulled into town, Sammy began to shift. He moved against the seat slowly, so slowly, it felt like he was barely moving. He let all the turning and speed of the car lean him back – like a sort of gravity. His hand slipped off his lap as he did. He looked at it, noted how close it was to Octavia’s tail. He wanted to move his fingers. He wanted her to move close to him. He wanted to feel her breathing, and match his own breaths to hers.

He wanted to throw up. He wanted to panic to recede, but every time he noticed how tight his test was, it only seemed to tighten further.

He closed his eyes.

“ _…and voila! We should have the first piece of our chequered scarf! If you see me in town, give me a shout and show me how much you’ve done. I’d love to see King Falls swarthed in blue wool. It’s the blue wool revolution!_ ” The old woman laughed. Sammy imagined her, years ago, sitting alone, laughing to herself in the gloom to save her listeners from dead air.

Sammy had met her, but he couldn’t remember her name. Wasn’t that terrible? Wasn’t _he_ terrible?

The car pulled to a stop.

Sammy suddenly remembered, with an intensity that kept his breath locked beside his heart, how he had done this for Ben. How they had arrived at Ben’s house after spending hours scouring the fields next to the highway for any sign of Emily. Ben had been red faced and crying. He had been so tired – emotionally spent and physically aching – and Sammy had had to help him walk the steps, Sammy had knocked on the door of Ben’s mother’s house.

Sammy who had said, “ _I’m so sorry, Mrs. Arnold, he asked me to bring him here_.”

Emily was back now, Ben was strong again. Sammy wondered if that was supposed to give him hope. But all he felt was the same, irritating dread.

If Sammy had had someone, would Ben have taken Sammy there? If Sammy had family, even if Sammy hadn’t been able to find the words to ask?

He supposed he ought to be grateful Ben hadn’t sought Lily Wright out. Sammy closed his eyes and thanked whatever deity had cursed him for the small miracles.

Ben didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he twisted in his seat, worried eyes peaking out through the grey-morning light. “Do you want me to come up with you?”

Sammy sucked in a breath, as though filling his chest might loosen it enough for him to talk. No luck – his ribs seemed to revolt against the pressure, and Sammy felt strangled. So instead he acceded to shaking his head. Without giving himself enough time to decide against it, he reached for the door handle and pushed it open.

“Can I come back in a few hours?” Ben called out of the car. And then, because it was Ben, he swung open the drivers door and stepped out. He wanted Sammy to see his eyes – Ben always wanted people to feel seen.

It was one of the things Ben loved about him. It was one of the things Sammy wanted to avoid. If he was seen, now, by anyone but himself, he’d never be able to tug himself into anything resembling bearable.

Sammy found his tongue for long enough to say, “I don’t think so, Ben.”

Ben looked wounded (or worried?), but he hid it quickly enough that Sammy would have missed it if he hadn’t been so attuned to how Ben was perceiving him – if he hadn’t been so desperately afraid that Ben was thinking the worst, and so damnably hopeful that he wasn’t.

“Octavia,” Sammy said. She hadn’t moved. If he took another few steps away, the bind between them would ache.

Sammy wondered if either of them would feel it, whether it would be hidden under the churning stomach, the aching chest.

But it was Octavia. And she hadn’t moved for the better part of 20 minutes. And Sammy had found his way back well enough to speak. So he bent over and, with one knee awkward on the seat, scooped her up. She was very still in his arms.

He could feel her heart beat beneath his palms.

“You going to be ok, man?” Ben asked. He looked guilty (or concerned?) for asking it – what purpose was there ever in asking the obvious question?

“I’ll be alright,” Sammy offered a smile. _Alright_ felt neutral enough that it didn’t feel so much like a lie. It felt positive enough that Ben would drive home, that Ben would accept Sammy didn’t want to see him at lunchtime, that Ben might not even call, might not even worry.

Ben’s eyes flashed again – guilt-or-worry, guilt-or-concern. Sammy felt it again, the _hope_ and _guilt_ and _panic-guilt-anger_. “Alright, Sammy. Look, I…” Ben sighed, he scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Sammy, I love you.”

Sammy nodded. “I know that.”

And he did. He just wished it was enough.

Sammy didn’t look back as he walked into his building. Ben must have driven away, at some point, because when he came up to his apartment and pushed open the blinds, Ben’s car was gone. He pictured him, now – Dido had curled up on the front seat when Sammy and Octavia had sat together in the back. Maybe Ben was stroking Dido, rethinking everything he’d said. Maybe the disgust was growing.

Sammy squeezed his eyes shut to forget it. Ben wasn’t a liar. Even when he tried, Sammy had always been able to tell. The kid had had a ‘secret notebook’ that he basically announced to the entire world as soon as it had been incepted. Ben wasn’t a liar. Ben had told Sammy he loved him. Ben had told Sammy everything was alright. Sammy had told Ben everything and Sammy wouldn’t regret it he wouldn’t regret it he _couldn’t_ regret it there was—

Breathing out slowly, steadying himself, he pulled out his phone. Four missed calls – two from Ron, with a voice mail for each. Sammy sighed and listened to them.

The first was a panicked message letting him know he and Ben were still on air. Soured, Sammy deleted the message. He didn’t need another reminder.

The second was softer – still gruff – telling Sammy he loved him, that he was sorry about Jack, and that he always had a cup of tea ready if Sammy ever needed to talk.

Sammy went to delete that message too. He paused, just for a moment.

He thought better of it.

The other call was from Emily. No voicemail, but a text sent, ‘ _I love you’_.

The last one was from Lily Wright. Sammy felt the _guilt-anger-panic_ rise up in him like vomit. He flung his phone onto the couch and bent forward, running his hands over his face.

A tug on the invisable tether, a hoof-step behind him. He stilled.

Sammy turned. Octavia was looking at him. She had her chin up.

“I’m so sorry,” Sammy said first. His voice was hoarse. He had all the guilt in his hands, he had to put it down somewhere. Octavia was proud, and stronger than him – she could bear it.

“You shouldn’t apologise for being outed,” Octavia had found her voice. She sounded deeply shaken. She stuttered, her throat sounded thick. But she also sounded sincere.

“I’m not apologising for that,” Sammy said, even though he sort of was. Octavia tilted her head, like she knew all the things that went unsaid.

“Good.”

“I’m sorry that you were right,” Sammy said finally. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

Octavia’s ear flicked. “Because you didn’t tell Ben?”

“Yes.”

Octavia came forward. Sammy let himself ease onto his knees. She pressed herself close to him, her best approximation at a hug.

“You should call Ben,” Octavia finally said. “It’s not good to be alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Sammy said.

“We’re alone together.”

Sammy tried, “Isn’t that a bit paradoxical?”

He had nearly smiled, but Octavia wasn’t amused. “Don’t.”

Sammy’s near-smile faltered. It fell around his knees. He could have traced it in the dust. “I want to be alone.”

He didn’t want to be seen. He didn’t want to be known. He didn’t want to be pitied, needled, spoken to. In the grand scheme of the universe, being loved was much harder than loving from a distance. Sammy knew that there was an alternative to all this –

He didn’t have to see Ron, he didn’t have to reply to Emily. He didn’t have to call Ben, he didn’t have to go out and buy his groceries.

There was no chance that he could lock the guilt and the anger out. But he could leave the panic panting at the door.

“Where does that lead?” Octavia asked softly, when Sammy told her he would stay here, and he would have a shower, and he wouldn’t be going to work tomorrow.

She had heard it all, like before. He wondered, sometimes, if there was more between them, in the gold-invisable thread, than just his emotions. Sometimes it seemed like she knew his thoughts.

“I might have to quit,” Sammy admitted.

It hadn’t been what she was looking for, but Sammy could read her too, and he felt her relief.

Octavia was better at hiding it, but Sammy knew her like he knew the constellation of freckles on the back of Jack’s hands. Sammy knew she was distracted to the same shame, that the guilt festered in the back of her throat in the same spot as his.

She wouldn’t say, “ _ok_ ”, because it was the wrong thing to say.

But she couldn’t say, “ _Sammy, don’t say that_ ”, because she worried she might actually talk him out of it.

So she said nothing. And he said nothing. And they both sat, in the light of a breaking morning, saying nothing for a long time.


End file.
